


Rabbit Boy

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Ussuri [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Kings (TV 2009), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Familiars, Gen, King Silas' A+ Parenting, M/M, Pietro Maximoff Needs a Hug, Pietro No, Sam Wilson is a Gift, So Does Jack Benjamin, So is Riley, Soul Bond, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: This isn't Stucker's story, but it begins with him because he finds a much older story, one about an American prisoner with a divided soul. One day the prisoner will get his name back, along with his history and freedom. But right now he is known only as the Ghost Cat; The Siberian Tiger; the Asset. Designations whispered with awe, disbelief and fear.Strucker isn't afraid, but he is envious. It's 2005 and Alexander Pierce has owned the Ghost Cat for thirteen years. Strucker wants the Ghost Cat very, very badly, but Pierce is the head of the World Security Council. Pierce controls the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Strucker has a few armed thugs, a couple of trembling, sycophantic scientists, and an anachronistic fortress in the middle of a Sokovian forest. He has nothing that would let him steal or take the Ghost Cat from Pierce. He certainly has nothing to offer worth a shape-changing, assassin familiar.Strucker may have nothing to offer, or with which to challenge Alexander Pierce. But he does have his intelligence, his knowledge, and his ambition.He also has a pair of young, terrified twins.





	Rabbit Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/gifts).



> This is an extremely (like, over a year) late birthday gift for my very own absolutely fantastically awesome twin sister [Squeaky.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky) I want to thank the Work in Progress Big Bang mods for giving me the opportunity to finish it!
> 
> I'm so glad you like the fic, Squeaks! I love you leik whoa, and am grateful to have you in my life.
> 
> Squeaky wanted the Maximoff twins to be teens in this AU, which is why I've messed around with the Marvel timeline a bit. [Squeaky has a wonderful AU series called "Already Where You Belong", where all the Avengers (plus Pietro and Bucky!) are teens who get rescued by Phil Coulson.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/251074) You should go read it after you finish this story. :D 
> 
> (Seriously, go read it.)
> 
> Squeaky was also cool enough to beta her own story. Thanks, Squeaks!
> 
> I was lucky enough to have [feanorinleatherpants](https://feanorinleatherpants.tumblr.com/) as my artist for this story! I love the ethereal, dreamy pictures she made for Kotik and [Find Your Way Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7340704). I'm thrilled that she chose my work again, and made the beautiful, beautiful cover. Thank you SO MUCH, Feanor! 
> 
> Per [this article](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Sokovia) from the MCU wiki , I've decided Sokovia is close to Latveria and Symkaria. [Here's a handy map that shows Latveria and Symkaria.](http://www.comicboards.com/marvelguide/Balkans.gif)
> 
> Per [this article on Gilboa](http://kings.wikia.com/wiki/Gilboa) I've decided the country is in northern Saudi Arabia, based on the apparent geography of the region. I've also decided that the native language of Gilboa is [Aramaic](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aramaic_language).
> 
> Fake countries for the win!
> 
> My headcanon is that Gilboa was founded after WW II, by fundamentalist Christians looking to find meaning and structure after the horrors of the war by going back to the teachings of the [earliest forms of Christianity.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_Christianity) Aramaic was one of the main languages in which Christianity was first spread.
> 
> It's quite possible I have overthought this. XD But I couldn't stop myself from trying to reconcile how this strange, modern-yet-ancient country could exist inside the MCU.
> 
> In case you're interested, [this is a picture of Prince Jack Benjamin](http://i.imgur.com/caJ5K2Q.jpg), and [this is (mostly) what he looks like when he gets rescued.](http://i.imgur.com/ffEbvms.png) Familiar, huh? Heh. ;)

[](https://feanorinleatherpants.tumblr.com/)

* * *

There is more than one kind of witch.

This is common knowledge, of course. Most people meet at least one witch in their lifetime. Children learn about witches in school; there are a few who are household names. Tony Stark. Robin Hood was supposedly a witch. The kings and queens of Wakanda have always been.

Most witches have their chants: established, enduring spells or ones made up whenever necessary. Some, not many, sing. Even fewer draw their spells, marking glyphs or strings of symbols like shorthand. Fewer still are powerful enough to simply will their desires into being. Those witches are often, though not always, the ones who lose their power early, burning out on spells they may not even realize they created. For years Bruce Banner thought he became the Hulk by accident. Nick Fury assumed it was luck, when he didn't lose his life along with his eye. Steve Rogers brought back the dead.

Wanda Maximoff is one of these witches. But this is not just her story.

* * *

The story begins here: deep inside the snow-capped fortress of a man burdened with the improbable name of Wolfgang von Strucker. He is a Baron in a world where such rank no longer matters. But he is also one of the many heads of Hydra, which matters a great deal. And he's a witch.

This isn't Stucker's story either, but it begins with him because he's the one who finds a much older story, one about an American prisoner with a divided soul. One day the prisoner will get his name back, along with his history and freedom. But right now his identity consists only of epithets and speculation. He is the Ghost Cat; The Siberian Tiger; the Asset. Designations whispered with awe, disbelief and fear.

Strucker isn't afraid, but he is envious. It's 2005 and Alexander Pierce has owned the Ghost Cat for thirteen years. Strucker wants the Ghost Cat very, very badly, but Pierce is the head of the World Security Council. Pierce controls the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Strucker has a few armed thugs, a couple of trembling, sycophantic scientists, and an anachronistic fortress in the middle of a Sokovian forest. He has nothing that would let him steal or take the Ghost Cat from Pierce. Rightfully, he shouldn't even think of such things—all the Hydra Covens are ostensibly allies. He certainly has nothing to offer Pierce worth a shape-changing, assassin familiar.

Strucker may have nothing to offer, or with which to challenge Alexander Pierce. But he does have his intelligence, his knowledge, and his ambition. 

He also has a pair of young, terrified twins.

* * *

Neither of Sam Wilson's parents were witches, but his uncle was one, God rest his soul, and so is his grandmother. Uncle Samuel died in Vietnam. Sam never got to meet him. But Hazel says their magic is the same.

He doesn't have a sixth sense like his grandma—her magic leans more towards perception and his is all about the soul—but it's given him a knack for knowing when someone's in pain. Not physical pain, necessarily, though if it's bad enough for long enough it'll affect the soul too. But emotional pain. Soul-deep pain. The kind that makes him glad he's a witch and hate it at the same time.

Not that the person hurting will always let him help.

Sam can tell before he even gets near the kid hunched up and shivering in the doorway that he won't be allowed to help. Not with his magic, maybe not with anything. Normally Sam wouldn't even try. He'd just give the kid a few bucks and get him to a shelter for the night, if the kid would even accept that little. But this boy's hurting so bad that it feels like there's a gaping maw inside him, tearing him apart piece by piece.

It's near the end of 2006 and late at night, and Sam is on leave from the Air Force. He has yet to experience the kind of grief that eats you alive. He's 28 years old and part of him would rather strap his wings back on and leap into a firefight than stop and ask this kid if he can help. But he's a soldier, and his grandma said he'd be a hero and he's tried to live up to that his whole life. And heroes don't ignore people in pain.

"Hey," he says. "Are you okay?"

He knows the boy's not, but Sam's not the least bit surprised when he lifts his head to scowl at him anyway. He has hair so white it's probably dyed, and pale skin that looks ghostly in the light from the closed store behind him. He's so thin Sam could probably count all his bones. "What do you want?"

He has an accent. Russian, maybe. And of course he's hostile as hell. "I wouldn't mind knowing if you've eaten in the last 24 hours. Or if you've got somewhere warm to go tonight."

"Why? You offering?" Sam's not sure if the kid is actually trying for a come-on and failing miserably or if he's being sarcastic, but the idea of anyone being _interested_ in this scrawny, underfed adolescent makes Sam's skin crawl. The boy can't be older than seventeen at most. At absolute most.

"I'm not looking for sex," Sam says, and then has his heart break a little at the relief that slides over the boy's face before he fixes the scowl on again. "I just figured you could use a meal and somewhere warm to sleep. In a shelter," he adds, before the kid gets the wrong idea again.

"I'm fine."

"I can see that," Sam says, gently. He really wants to say, _We both know you're not,_ but he's learned enough about talking to people that sometimes the worst thing you can do is bust their lies. "But it's just going to get colder tonight, and you don't look comfortable."

"Why do you care?" His tone is all belligerence, but there's a note of real confusion underneath it. Maybe some fear, though Sam's not sure about that part.

"Why shouldn't I care?" Sam crouches, putting himself at eye level so he's not towering over the kid. He puts out his hand. "Sam Wilson."

The boy doesn't take his hand. "I know you're a witch."

That was unexpected. Sam blinks. He's getting nothing witchy off this kid, has no idea how the kid could be getting anything from him. "How did you know that?"

The boy's smile is ghastly and mean. "Because you're all the same. You pretend to help but you don't mean it. I don't know what you want, but you're not getting anything from me. So fuck off."

"I want to help you, like I said." Sam goes for broke. "I know you're hurting. I can help, ease it a little."

The boy smacks his palm over his chest and leaps to his feet. For a second he looks absolutely _terrified_ , like Sam just offered to kill him. Then his thin face goes ugly with rage. He snarls something Sam can't understand in what sounds like Russian. Then, "I don't want you to help me! It's mine! This pain is _mine!_ Go away! _Leave me alone!_ "

Sam stands as well, palms out. "Whoa. Whoa. I'm not taking a damn thing. I'm not going to hurt you. It's just, you're right. I'm a witch. My specialty is soul magic. I can feel people hurting. I could feel it in you. I'd like to help."

"And I'd like my sister back," the kid spits. "Can you help with that, witch? Can you bring back the dead?"

"No. No one can do that," Sam says. He thought the boy had maybe lost his parents. This is about a thousand times worse. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, you're sorry. My sister is _dead_ and you're sorry. You think you can help me? Go away. That's the only thing I want from you."

"All right. All right. I'll leave." Well done, Sam, he thinks. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, takes out the two twenties and offers them. "At least get yourself some food."

The kid eyes the money, want flickering through his eyes, but then he backs up again with a sneer. "I want nothing from you, witch."

"Fine." Sam stifles a sigh, bends to put the money down on the stoop where the kid was sitting. "I'll just—"

The kid disappears.

 _Disappears,_ like he was never there to begin with. There's a blast of air and then nothing at all.

Sam stands up, bills crumpled in his cold hand, wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Wanda Maximoff becomes a witch when she and her brother are ten years old.

It's the first year of the new millennium and their parents are dead. She heard their shouting and then how it stopped, abrupt as a bullet when the bomb hit. Now there's nothing where the kitchen was but empty blue sky. She can smell smoke. Half their apartment is gone. Her parents are gone.

She and Pietro should also be dead, but they were in the bedroom they still share in the tiny apartment, squeezed under her bed because it's at the back of the room. She saw the mortar with the words _Stark Industries_ crash onto her bedroom floor. She saw it explode in a burst of fire like the end of the world.

She and Pietro should both be dead, but Wanda is a witch. She contained the explosion, pushed it away in a burst of red light. It will take years before she can harness her power for anything that extraordinary again, but right now all that matters is that she and her brother are still alive. But their parents are dead and they have nothing.

Almost nothing. They have each other, and a name where they can direct their hatred.

* * *

"Grandma," Sam says, "I need your help."

"I know," Hazel says, but she smiles as she steps back from the door. She moves slowly—Sam can practically hear her limbs creak—and her hair is bright white, but her dark eyes are keen as always. "I made some tea." She sways back to the kitchen table and sits down with a quiet thump and a sigh. "You remember how I like mine, don't you?"

"Yes, Grandma." He gets her favorite cups out of the cupboard, saucers and everything, then pours two cups of the fragrant, steaming tea. Jasmine this time, he thinks. She prefers chamomile when her clients are anxious, green when they need to pay attention. Jasmine is for social visits, which makes him smile.

He puts two teaspoons of sugar into hers, one teaspoon and a splash of milk into his. He's had tea with his grandmother must be hundreds of times, but he never really did get a taste for it.

"Thank you," she says when he places the cup and saucer in front of her, before sitting down on the other side of the table.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks. The apartment feels comfortable to him, but he's young and the building's old, built before the second world war. The heat still comes from the clicking radiator under the window, and he's sure most of it goes right through the glass.

"Yes, Sam." She smiles at him exactly like she knows how much he worries about her, then reaches out and puts her hand over his. Hers is plump and soft with age, but the gnarled whorls of her knuckles are still strong. Funny how for all he's grown, for all that he does Pararescue and knows magic, that he still feels so safe here. Like all he has to do is crawl into her lap like he was small enough to do once, and she'll fix everything. "I'm fine, honey. You don't need to worry about me."

"I just hate that I can't visit as much as I used to."

She nods. "You got an important job, Sam. And you're here when you can be. I always appreciate that." She grins, then squeezes his hand and lets go. "Now, drink your tea so I can do my magic."

Sam drinks his tea obediently, sipping it slowly because the longer he touches the cup the easier it is for her to read. He hands it to her when he's finished, then sits silently as she says a short prayer and begins her spell. He's no clairvoyant the way she is, but their magic looks very much the same: multicolored patterns, lazily twisting and scattering light. Hazel's always looks…thicker than his, maybe. More substantial, though when he told her she just said it was a trick of his perception. If anything, she insists, he's more powerful than she is.

Hard to imagine that, though, watching the beautiful kaleidoscope of her magic as Hazel chants the words Sam's heard so often they feel like a part of him. She gasps once, puts her hand over her mouth, but she shakes her head and puts the cup down before he can really start worrying.

Not that he doesn't. "What's wrong?" he asks, because his grandma's eyes are still wide and more haunted then he'd ever want to see.

She wraps his closer hand in her own. "Tell me about this boy," she says.

He's not surprised she knows. For all that they never touched the kid left an impression. "Young," he says. "Couldn't be more than 17, maybe. Probably younger. Tall. Skinny. He had white hair—"

"Like a rabbit," Hazel says for him.

Sam nods. "Yeah. But that wasn't the strange thing. He didn't feel like a witch, but he just…disappeared. Like a ghost. For a moment I wasn't even sure I hadn't just imagined him."

"You didn't imagine him," Hazel says. "I thought he might be someone else for a moment, but he's real enough." She turns her sharp eyes on him. "Who's he grieving for?"

"His sister." Sam came here right after the kid vanished. He's sure the boy's sorrow is all over him. "He's real angry, Grandma."

"Yes he is." Hazel nods absently. "I know you want to help him, but that's not the only reason you're here. He's carrying danger, isn't he? He's going to do something stupid."

Sam hadn't gotten that impression particularly, but it makes sense now that he thinks about it. And Hazel's never wrong. "What kind of stupid?"

His grandma's smile is wry and knowing. "He's an angry, grieving teenage boy. I think we both know what kind of stupid."

Sam winces. "Guess so." He leans closer to her, keeping their hands joined on the table. "What is he? How did he vanish like that?"

"I don't know." She frowns, tilting her head. "Do you remember the soldier I told you about? The one you'll pay back for me?"

"Hard to forget something like that." Sam sucks in a breath. "This kid—that's him? That was Barnes?"

"No." Hazel shakes her head and Sam lets out a breath of relief. "That's the thing, though. He's not Barnes. But, he feels…." She frowns, thinking. "Hard to say. There's something…." She makes a face. "Similar. But I don't know why." 

"He was hurting," Sam says. "And lost, in his soul. Maybe that's why he seems the same."

Hazel hums in agreement. "Could be." She doesn't look like she really thinks that's it, though. "At least he's clean, inside. His hurt's raw, but there's no evil that caused that pain." She squeezes his hand before she lets go. "Whatever it is, though, he's still planning something bad. So bad I could feel it. It's about the only thing he's got that's keeping him moving. He wants someone to die."

"What can I do? How do I stop him?"

Hazel shakes her head. "I couldn't see that. I'm sorry. His future is filled with red, that's all I know."

Red. That sure as hell isn't good. Sam slumps back in his chair. He runs his hand over his head. "Damn."

"That's not everything, though." Hazel looks at him. "Where are you shipping out to?"

"Sokovia. Aid mission."

Hazel smiles warmly at him, just a bit of worry in it. "That's good, Sam. You'll do a lot of good, and God knows those poor people need it." She puts her hand over his again, her eyes going a little distant as she silently forms a line or two of one of her chants. "Something important is going to happen there." She blinks and she's completely focused again. "Pay attention. Listen. Don't pass anyone up."

"Something important." He huffs out a breath. "Something to do with the stupidly dangerous kid?"

She pats his hand. "That's exactly what it'll be."

* * *

Dr. List is friendly, white-haired and inoffensively pleasant, like a grandfather in a film. Pietro is instantly suspicious of him, and Wanda grabs his hand under the table as soon as they sit down. But they're sitting outside a café on a street that's still busy despite the soldiers and the guns, and the day is bright and warm. And Dr. List is buying them food. It's 2004, and Pietro and Wanda have been on the streets for four years, and they haven't eaten in nearly two days.

It's hard to pay attention after the waitress sets the plates down, but what Dr. List tells them sounds ridiculous anyway. "You are saying you can give us super powers. Like Captain America," Pietro says around a mouthful of chicken. "That's bullshit."

Wanda gives him a sharp look and kicks his ankle. She's eating much more nicely though barely any slower, but she chews and swallows before she speaks. "How would you do something like that?"

Dr. List smiles fondly at her before he takes a sip of coffee. There's something in his smile that has Pietro's back up like a dog. He glances at his sister. She's anxious. He could tell that even if his fingers weren't aching from how tightly she's holding his hand. But she's still listening, hasn't got up to leave. Maybe it's just because she's as hungry as he is.

"That part you would leave up to me and my colleagues. That is, the people I work with," he amends with a smile so condescending Pietro shoves more food in his mouth so he won't sneer. List puts his coffee aside and leans closer, like he's going to tell them a big secret. "But I _can_ tell you that it would involve your magic."

Wanda's hand tightens around Pietro's, but when he glances at her she's just drinking her water, expression neutral. 

"What magic?" Pietro gives List a big, bright grin.

List smiles again, that same patronizing one that Pietro wants to punch right off his face. "I know my kind," he says, speaking to Wanda, not him. "And you, my dear, are a witch, aren't you?"

Wanda shrugs, looking down at her food. "It was not enough to save our parents."

Pietro doesn't know if she's being artful or just saying what she feels. He remembers her saving his life, knows how easily she can move things without even reciting spells. But if she's trying to convince Dr. List she's just an ordinary witch, he won't interfere with that. He has no magic, but this man gave him a bad feeling from the first moment he walked up to them in the street. They'd insisted they were on their way home, but hadn't been convincing enough. And then he'd offered them food and they were too hungry to say no.

"I understand." List gives her a kindly, sympathetic smile before he picks up his coffee again. "But that is what we can help you with. We can make you so much _more_ , Wanda. We can make you the hero your country needs. The one to unite your people and lead them out of this dictatorship."

"What about my brother?" Wanda asks.

"What's in it for you?" Pietro says. List's Sokovian isn't bad, but it's not his native language. And he's too rich to be one of the foreign protestors occasionally gunned down in the streets. There's no reason for him to care about them or their country.

"Ah." The doctor's cup taps against the wooden table as he replaces it. "The joy of discovery. We are especially interested in you as twins. How one should have magic and the other does not."

"She's a girl," Pietro says. "Only women get the magic in our family."

"Well, that's fascinating on its own, don't you think?" List says. "That's the kind of thing I mean." He grins at them. "Finding the reason for that, why only the women in your family are witches."

"That's just the way it's always been. It's not so interesting."

List's grin tilts a bit before he can yank it back. "Well, there's also knowing I was doing some good in this world. Helping where it was needed."

"Bullshit," Pietro says again. This time Wanda doesn't shush him.

"I'm sorry, but I have to agree with my brother," Wanda says. "People don't help for nothing." She takes another drink of her water.

List gives them that smile Pietro wants to hit. List reaches for his cup but just toys with it, pushing the handle back and forth. "It is so sad to hear such cynicism in people so young."

"We're not young," Pietro says.

List scoffs. "You're fourteen."

"Our parents were killed by Stark Industries when we were ten," Wanda says. "We grew up a long time ago."

"Stark Industries." List sips his coffee thoughtfully. Pietro shoves the last of his meal into his mouth. Wanda's only eaten half of hers. She quietly pushes her plate closer to him. List's eyes fasten on that, but he says nothing.

"Tony Stark's weapons killed our parents," Wanda says fiercely. "We want him to pay."

"Von Strucker and I can do that," List says. "Help you become powerful enough to punish him."

That stops Pietro dead mid-chew. He swallows the food down with difficulty, swigs half his water. That…Maybe that changes things. But he's not the witch, here. He looks at his sister.

She's tempted, he can tell. She lets go of his hand for the first time. She licks her lips, looking out the window as she thinks. "That would be good," she says at last. She looks at the doctor again. "To be able to give him what he deserves." List beams at her, but Wanda shakes her head. "Except, I still don't know what you want. People don't help for nothing."

Dr. List looks angry, but only for a moment before his face smooths out into gentle disappointment. He gestures at the plates in front of them: the one Pietro scraped clean, and the one with the food Wanda gave him. "What about your meal? I saw two starving children. I wanted to help."

Pietro manages to not roll his eyes. "That was just to get us to listen."

"Which we have," Wanda says more politely. She stands, which means Pietro has to get up as well. He doesn't want to leave the food behind, but he won't stay without her. "Thank you very much, Doctor. You are most kind. But after consideration, we will have to say no."

List sighs, but nods. "Of course. I understand completely." His smile is very warm. "Thank you for giving me your time on this pleasant afternoon. You have my card if you change your mind."

"We won't," Pietro says. Then, "Thanks," because Wanda throws a quick glare at him.

They walk away from the café patio. Pietro glances back once. List is watching them go, still with that same warm smile.

* * *

"The locals don't seem to like us much, do they?"

"Nope." Sam winces when he hears what's probably another brick thudding angrily against the cracked wooden door. It's March 2007, and they're in the thick of the latest surge of the unending Sokovian civil war. "Love your observation skills, man. You keep that up."

Riley throws him a quick grin, then goes back to patching up the soldier who got them in this mess in the first place. "How you doing, Jack?" he asks quietly as he finishes with the bandage. Half the kid's head is wrapped in white gauze. He looks like a grimy pirate. 

"My head hurts," he says. But he rubs his chest, which makes no sense. 

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you stop rocks with your face," Riley says, which at least gets a weak little laugh. "I don't get it, though," he complains to the room in general. "We're bringing food and medicine. Why are they so pissed?"

"Next time I meet one of these welcoming locals who I can talk to in my fluent Sokovian, I'll do my best to find out." Sam looks around at the broken, empty shelves and bits of plaster and ceiling tiles scattered along the floor. This had been some kind of butcher shop before the civil war trashed this part of Novi Grad. It still smells like rotting meat. It's disgusting, but the owner was prescient enough to put bars over all the windows, and the back door is thick and locked. The front door is currently barred by as many heavy things as Riley and Sam could move in front of it. It looks like a set from _Les Miz_ , but at least it's keeping the angry civilians outside.

"If you were fluent you should've said," Riley comments mildly. He pats Jack on the shoulder and stands up, looking through the bars covering the shattered back window. "I think it's clear now." He goes closer, only to jerk back when a broken piece of concrete clangs against the metal. "Whoops. Guess not."

"Great." Sam scrubs his face, then frowns at the rasp of plaster dust. "Maybe there's a way up to the roof."

"Not from inside."

"Fuck." Sam puts his hands on his hips, doing another slow turn of the store. Maybe they can get out through the basement, though he can't see how that'd be possible unless the store miraculously connects to some ancient tunnel system. "Next time someone yells at you to 'drop that shit and run'," he says to Jack, "You seriously need to drop that shit and run."

"My backpack was full of penicillin," Jack says wearily. He levers himself so he's sitting a little straighter against the wall then grimaces in pain. He gingerly touches the bandage, grimaces some more, then rubs his chest again. "I wasn't just going to leave it."

"Well, you just went and left it." Sam goes to the nearer side wall. If they could somehow get through it they might be able to get out via the building next door. "We could really use that team of yours right now. Just saying."

The kid smirks like Sam told him a bad joke. He's way too young to look that bitter. "Believe me, they're not trying to find me. My father will be thrilled if I don't come back."

Sam doubts that, but the kid's so wrecked inside that it makes sense he'd believe it. Sam's pretty sure this is the person his grandma said he shouldn't pass up. He figures the important thing she said would happen is him keeping Jack safe and getting him home, and maybe help him with some of the guilt and self-loathing he's half drowned in. It's not the same kind of pain Sam got from the rabbit boy back in New York, but it's close. Maybe that's why Hazel was so adamant about it.

"No one's dying today," Riley says. He looks at Sam. "I could try that calling spell again."

Sam shakes his head. "Don't waste your magic." His eyes slide to Jack, and Riley nods, understanding. If things go more pear-shaped, Riley's magic will be all they have.

"Who the hell's going to respond to an American spell anyway?" Jack leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. He swallows a few times like he's trying not to puke, then says something that are probably swearwords but not in any language Sam's familiar with. It sounds a bit like Hebrew, but Sam's almost certain Israel doesn't have a military aid mission here. "Maybe you didn't notice, but they're trying to kill you."

"Not just us," Sam says. "Unless throwing rocks is a sign of friendship where you're from." 

"But he's got such a nice attitude," Riley says, then laughs when Jack gives him the finger without opening his eyes. Riley edges to the back door, going more carefully this time. "I might be able to put them all to sleep, but it'll take a while to do the spell."

"I don't think they're going to give us that long," Sam says. "Jack, you still with us? 'Cause If you've got any more spells like the one you used with the lock, now would be a great time to share with the class."

Jack snorts. "If you want to make more shit blow up or set the building on fire, I'm your boy. Otherwise…." He gives a tiny shrug, then rubs his chest again.

"Is your chest hurting you?" Riley asks him.

"No." Jack moves his hand to his thigh. "I'm fine. It's just a habit."

"Actually, a small fire or explosion might be exactly what we need," Sam says. "Do you—"

"Holy fuck," Riley says from the back of the room. He's practically glued himself to the glass, staring out. "Holy _shit._ " He looks at Sam over his shoulder, his face alight with thrilled incredulity. "Everyone out there's gone. They just walked away!"

"What?" Sam trots over to him. "They just walked—?"

Riley backpedals from the door as it swings open like the lock was made of paper. A girl comes through.

Not just a girl. A witch.

She's not short, but she's thin and fragile-looking, like she spends a lot of her time ill. Her brown hair is stringy, and her clothes are dirty and worn. Sam's seen a lot of people like that here, witches included, but her eyes have a quiet wildness in them that makes him back up a step before he thinks about it. 

"Follow me. Quickly," she says in accented but clear English, and she looks right at Sam.

 _Oh,_ Sam thinks. Because it's not Jack, it's her. She's the one he can't pass up.

He nods when Riley looks at him questioningly, then helps Riley get Jack to his feet, and makes sure his arm is securely across Riley's shoulders. Jack dry heaves a few times, but at least he's alert once the nausea passes. He's too dizzy to walk on his own, though. Riley will need to assess him again once they're safe.

That they will be safe, Sam has no doubt. They walk behind the witch, Riley and Jack in the middle with Sam watching their six, and everyone parts in front of her like the Red Sea for Moses. That's fitting, because her magic is red. Red surrounds her like nimbus, so much power coming from her that everything she passes holds a sheen of scarlet for a moment, like paint.

Sam listens for her chanting or singing, but she doesn't. She doesn't trace symbols on anything either. All her magic comes through movement: delicate, dreamlike twists of her wrists and hands. It's beautiful and eerie as hell. Sam's never seen anything like it.

But he's felt that kind of grief before, in the alcove of a New York storefront. It's the exact same kind of tearing pain; the exact same black, consuming maw. Even her sickly thinness is the same. Sam figures he could count the witch's bones just like he could count the boy's.

He's got bigger concerns than who the witch is right now, though. Like getting all of them out of this intact. So he just follows as the witch leads them through a narrow maze of alleyways, painting their path in brief flashes of red. Anyone who might see them turns away at just the right moment. Anyone who might hurt them just goes blank and still then steps aside. 

She brings them to what was once an apartment building before the war, and now looks more like a teetering stack of boxes too stubborn to fall apart. But the stairs aren't too bad, and the apartment she brings them to at least has all four walls.

"Put him there." She points to a mattress under the still-intact window, only covered by a thin wool blanket.

"I'm not taking her bed!" Jack protests while Riley drags him over. Riley wins the argument just by letting Jack take some of his own weight, then helping him down when his legs give out. Jack sits very still on the mattress with his hands on his head, looking like every bad hangover Sam's ever experienced.

The girl goes to a corner where there's a pack of bottled water. She takes one of the bottles and brings it to Jack, who refuses with courtesy so old-school it's probably biblical.

"You have to drink something," Sam tells him. "Dehydration will make your symptoms worse."

"Slow sips," Riley says. He opens the bottle and puts it in Jack's hand.

"Fine." Jack takes exactly one grudging sip before putting the bottle down.

"He's gonna need you," Sam says quietly to Riley. Riley nods, then beams his thanks at the girl when she brings him and Sam water too.

"Thank you," Sam says to her. "You really pulled us out of the fire back there." He holds out his hand. "I'm Sam Wilson, United States Air Force."

She ignores his hand. "I know who you are, American." She doesn't quite make it sound like an insult. She hooks her hair behind one ear, then takes a long drink of her own bottle. When she finishes she wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "We don't want you here."

"I'm not American," Jack says.

The girl rolls her eyes. "I know that. I wasn't talking to you."

"We're just trying to help." Riley gulps his water, then pulls a very old notebook from his breast pocket and starts flipping pages. Sam's pretty sure his wingman could recite each spell in the book in his sleep, but Riley insists on reading the words every single time. He kneels in front of Jack, who's watching him with an expression of wary resignation. "I'm just going to see how you're doing."

Jack rubs his chest. "Still concussed."

"Yes you are," Riley says with a frankly miraculous amount of patience, considering the day they've already had. "I want to make sure it's not getting worse, and maybe do something about the nausea. And check your ribs."

"Okay, yeah. Please do something about the nausea." Jack yanks his hand away from his chest. "My ribs are fine."

Sam tunes the escalating argument out, turning his attention to the girl instead, the familiar pain she holds inside. "I didn't get your name."

"I did not give it." She goes to the wall and sits down, crossing her legs. She sips her water and watches Riley work his spell. Her expression is unreadable.

Sam sighs inwardly and goes to sit against the wall, close enough to the girl to talk easily while still giving her plenty of room. "You can probably tell I'm a witch too, right?"

She nods. "All three of you are witches." She takes another drink. "I can still kill you all if I want."

"I'm sure you can." That's the absolute truth. "I'm still grateful for the save, though. You didn't have to do that."

"I know." She finishes her water, but just sits with the bottle in her lap, shredding bits of label. There's an excited pink bear on it, saying something in Cyrillic with a lot of exclamation marks. "I hate Americans." The softness of her voice only underscores the vehemence. "It was American weapons that destroyed my city. American money that allowed the government to kill its own people. And now you come back thinking we want your help."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, meaning it. "It must be like insult to injury, to have us here. If it means anything at all, Riley and I are part of a transport group, escorting convoys with food and medicine." He pokes his thumb at Riley and Jack. "We got sidetracked rescuing this guy."

"Great rescue. Gold star," Jack says, completely ignoring Riley's hand spread like a starfish over his head. Riley keeps chanting, reading the words he already knows.

"Glad you think so." Sam smiles at Jack's huff before he takes another drink. "You went pretty far out of your way for people you hate," he says to her.

She shrugs, eyes still on the remains of the bottle's label. "My brother is dead, because of this war. I would not wish for anyone the pain of that loss."

"Thank you," Sam says, careful to keep his voice steady, thinking of the boy in New York. "Me and Riley both have sisters. I can't imagine what it'd feel like, to lose someone that important."

Her brother. Sam remembers the white-haired boy with the accent Sam couldn't place, rubbing his chest and screaming that his sister was dead. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

But how did they end up so far apart? And how the hell is Sam supposed to get them together again?

"I have a twin sister," Jack says. "We fight a lot. But I'm glad she's there."

The girl looks up so sharply at Jack's words that Sam rears back in surprise and hits his head on the wall. She opens her mouth to speak, but just closes it again, biting her lip instead. Her eyes are suddenly shining with tears.

She rubs her chest, like there's something missing where her heart should be.

* * *

Pietro runs.

He runs for hours. Days, maybe? He goes south, towards warmth and green, driven by grief and terror and rage so encompassing that all he can do is flee from it like an animal. His chest feels as if his heart's been torn out, but he's still breathing.

The last thing he remembers is the horror on his sister's face and then a burst of red and the sound of her screams. And then the sudden emptiness inside him that hurt for all it wasn't pain, like the torn edges of a new wound.

Wanda's dead. She has to be dead. How else could he feel like this? She is his second half, his other self. She's been gouged out of his soul because she's been gouged out of the world. She's gone.

She's gone. He has nothing left but grief, anger and fear, so he runs. He can't escape it, but he runs anyway.

He doesn't stop until he's almost in Athens, and by then he knows what he's going to do.

* * *

Hazel walks another block, grimacing a little at the dull ache in her hips and knees. No cure for old age, she thinks. She's been to healers, but when a body's on the downward slide it's on the downward slide. Nothing to be done about it. She's had a good run anyway.

Not that she's finished. Not by any stretch. But it's cold and her joints ache, and these days she gets tired so easy.

Sam would have a fit if he knew she was in this part of town at this hour, alone. But he's in Sokovia right now, and Hazel knew from the moment she opened her eyes this morning that she needed to go out tonight, no matter how cold it got.

One of those times her sixth sense is a damn pain in the neck. But at least she can see what's coming.

She's not surprised to see Sam's rabbit boy leaning against the side of a building. She had a feeling she needed to go in this direction, and not just because this is where so many of the young, beautiful, abandoned children go before the city burns them alive.

This one, the rabbit, already looks half immolated. He's thin, pinched and raw-looking, shivering in his tight tee-shirt and skinny jeans. But there's a ferocity to him, a wildness that makes it no surprise at all when one car, then another, then a third, crawls past his corner only to speed up again. Even folks with no magic at all can tell there's something off about this one. Something too dangerous to touch. No wonder he's starving.

Hazel goes closer. She's never run from the fierce, dangerous things and isn't about to start. And she's felt some of the magic this boy's wrapped in before. Almost 34 years ago, now, but some things you don't forget. At least this magic is clean, like she told Sam. Whatever was done to his soul, there was as much love behind it as the terror and desperation. But he's so sad. And so angry.

She knows he's eyeing her as she waddles along the sidewalk, not nearly as graceful as she used to be. She's a plump black woman old enough to be his great-grandmother, but she can feel his wariness like a wall she has to get through. She wonders when he last felt safe, or trusted anyone.

He's hungry. No surprise there either. It makes Hazel think of James Barnes.

James will be free and with his witch again. Hazel doesn't know how or when, exactly. Only that Sam will be vital to it and she won't live long enough to see it happen. She's not sure if this wild one will have a happy ending yet, but she's not here for that tonight. Tonight she's just trying to prevent a tragedy.

He edges away from her the closer she gets, sliding subtly along the wall and watching her with shadowed eyes. He looks confused when she stops, then instantly suspicious. Then he seems to check himself and his expression smooths into what he probably thinks is an alluring smile.

"What would you like?" he asks with the same smile. He hides his hostility remarkably well, she thinks. If she wasn't a witch she might not even notice.

"I'll give you $100.00 if you'll let me take you to that coffee shop over there and do a reading for you," she says.

His expression darkens like a storm rolling in. "Not interested."

"I know." Hazel didn't need her magic to know that'd be his answer before she asked. "But I also saw all those cars pass you by and go on to the other boys and girls who look less like they'll tear your throat out. And I've got $100.00 right here, and all you have to do for it is get out of the cold for a few minutes."

"I don't drink coffee."

"Yes you do."

He scowls, then looks right and left as if he doesn't want to be seen, then gives her a tiny, reluctant jerk of a nod. "Twenty minutes, that's all."

"That's more than I'll need," Hazel says.

He comes with her so grudgingly she can practically see it bristling from him like spines. All the same he links his elbow with hers as they walk, dropping his pace to match her creaking, unsteady movements.

"What a gentleman you are," Hazel says.

"If you fall and break your hip, I won't get paid." He sounds perfectly serious, but there's a flash of humor in his eyes. For a second he's lovely: handsome and charming like a prince from a fairy tale. And then the shutters drop like steel and he's just wild and angry again. He rubs his chest like it hurts.

The coffee shop is a tiny, exhausted Dunkin' Donuts that smells like old coffee beans and stale bread. The single, miserable employee barely glances up from her textbook when they come in. Hazel buys them both coffee—decaf for her, some concoction with a lot of cream and sugar for him—and two donuts with pink icing and sprinkles because the color makes her smile.

The boy carries both the drinks to a table in the corner nearest the door. He sits with his back to the wall with his hands wrapped around the paper cup, absorbing the warmth. He blinks in surprise when she puts the bag with both donuts in front of him, and it's almost funny how many expressions his face goes through while he decides whether he should be grateful or suspicious. He seems to settle for something in between.

Doesn't stop him from wolfing the donuts, though.

Hazel sips her coffee and watches him as he eats like he's starving (he is), then painstakingly lick any traces of icing off his lean fingers. She's glad his drink isn't hot enough to scald him, considering how fast he downs that too.

"All right." He puts his right hand palm up on the table. "Do your reading, witch."

"My name is Hazel," she says mildly. She doesn't ask for his. "And I will. Just give me a second. We have time." She takes another sip of coffee, then takes his hand in both of hers. His hand is still cold and she chafes it automatically while she recites her customary prayer under her breath and begins chanting.

Truthfully, she's expecting the same kind of cloying, nauseating horror she felt from James, for all that she didn't feel anything like it with Sam. But he's just as redolent with magic as James was—as poor James is still, most likely—and just as bound. Though again it's a clean binding, like fresh gauze over a wound.

And it is a wound, that's clear. The boy's past is red, red, red with blood and fear and pain. She sees a glint of silver, a flash of white like the boy's hair, a flare of red like setting fire to the world. She hears screaming and the reckless thunder of a heartbeat, the wild _thudthudthud_ of footfalls and the howl of wind. There is the deathly chill of winter and the deathly chill of a soul so burdened by grief and hatred that it barely flickers where it should blaze in scarlet and green. There's pure, clear light mixed in as well, shining here and there like eyes in the dark.

Once a past like that might have made her cry. But she's older now, and done her share of shouldering others' burdens. Now she can just take a deep breath, cradle the boy's hand in hers and carry on.

His future is red as blood and fire, with blue, gold and racing red flashing through it like lightning. Hazel feels the electric crackle of it all the way up her arms. He's poised on the edge of a precipice, about to fall or fly. So much despair and so much hope, all dependent on one single moment like balancing a blade.

"You're going to have a choice," she says. "You need to make the right one."

He pulls his hand back with a thin, ugly little smile, then rubs his chest. "That is all? $100.00 for my time and all you tell me is that I'll have a choice to make?" He scowls. "You think I am stupid?"

"Oh, no." Hazel shakes her head. "I know you're not stupid." She fixes him with her gaze. "And we both know what choice I'm talking about. Just like we both know why you're here."

He sucks in a breath, shocked, before he schools his features. "You gave me money."

"You know what I mean," she says flatly, her eyes still pinning him. "You know exactly what I mean."

He tries to glare, but he's too nervous to sell it. She needs to make this fast before even the promise of money won't be enough to keep him still. "You're not a killer," she says. "I know that. I've done enough readings to know what a predator feels like. I also know that you're different from most people, and I know what you've lost. And you know I'm a witch. So when I tell you to make the right choice, there's no point in you pretending you don't understand. The blood in your future won't bring her back. But patience will."

His face goes almost as white as his hair. Then he shoves back from the table and stands so quickly the poor girl at the front nearly sends her textbook skidding off the counter. " _What_ did you say?"

"You heard me." Hazel stands as well, much less gracefully. She puts her purse on the table and pulls out her wallet without taking her eyes off him. "It was in my reading," she says gently. That's not the whole truth—she knew about the sister from Sam—but the bond between them is plain as anything. Just like her bone-deep certainty that the other half of it is still breathing. "You'll find her again. But not if you do what you're planning."

"You are lying." There are tears in his eyes, but he's shaking with rage. He touches his chest. "She is dead. I saw it. I _felt_ it."

Hazel nods. "I saw the red too. But that wasn't an ending. It was a change. It was a beginning. But if you continue on this path it'll be an ending for sure. It's up to you."

"Why are you telling me this?" he demands. "What do you want?"

"One less death in the world." She fishes out five twenties and puts them on the table, then puts one of her business cards on top. She carries a few because her granddaughter made them, but she doesn't bother giving them out most of the time. This time she thinks she should. "You got enough on your soul, honey. Leave him be."

He eyes the money, but keeps his hands in trembling fists. "I can't! He needs to pay for what he did!"

"He will," she says with certainty. "He's going to pay more than you can imagine, for the rest of his life. But that part's up to God, not you."

"You're lying!" he shouts, heedless of the scared young woman at the counter. "He has paid you to come here and tell me this. My sister is _dead._ " He grits his teeth, swipes tears out of his eyes ."She is dead. I am the only one left to avenge our parents, and that is what I will do." He strides around the table and snatches up the money without looking, then pointedly drops her card on the floor. "You had your reading. Don't come back here again."

Hazel puts her hand on his wrist. He freezes, glowers murder at her but he's too kind to rip his arm away. "Don't do it. Please, honey. You'll get nothing but regret."

He turns his wrist to make her let go. He's so gentle it makes her sad. "Then regret will be what I have."

He leaves so fast she's still blinking when he's already long gone.

* * *

It takes nearly an hour before Riley finishes with Jack, and by then the kid is dead to the world, fast asleep sitting up against the wall. He barely twitches when Sam and Riley move him so he's lying on the mattress.

Riley looks barely awake himself, but his smile's only a little strained when he joins Sam and the girl. "I did some healing. It always knocks them out," he explains, then thanks her when the girl wordlessly gives him more water. "Pretty sure he's got a [subdural hematoma](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subdural_hematoma), but it's small. I think I was able to clear up most of it, but he needs an MRI and a witch who's better at this stuff than I am."

"Don't sell yourself short, Ri. We both know you most likely saved his life," Sam says.

Riley shrugs, his smile shy. "I'm just glad we were here to help."

"What does that mean, what you said is wrong?" the girl asks.

Riley's taking a drink, so Sam answers. "He has a bruise inside his skull," he says, going for the simplest explanation. "If the bleeding isn't stopped it might cause permanent damage or kill him."

"Should he be sleeping, then?"

"We won't let him stay out for long." Riley wipes his mouth and recaps the half-empty bottle, then starts yawning before he can cover his mouth. "Sorry."

"We're probably going to be here a while," Sam says. "Might as well get your head down."

Riley nods. "Yeah. I'm wiped." He pats Sam's shoulder heavily before he goes to lie down next to the mattress on the floor, cushioning his head on his bent arm. It looks incredibly uncomfortable but he's asleep in seconds.

"Wish I could do that," Sam murmurs.

"I don't like sleeping," the girl says.

"I get that," Sam says. "I guess you have a lot of nightmares?"

She nods. "First about my parents. Now, my brother as well. Some nights I can't stand closing my eyes."

"I'm sorry."

She rubs her chest. "Sorry does nothing."

"I know." Sam pulls a couple protein bars out of his tac vest and offers one to her. She hesitates, then takes one with a tiny smile. She's lovely, in a fragile kind of way. It's not hard to smile back. "I'd love to hear about him." He wants to say, _I'm pretty sure I've met him_ , but he knows she wouldn't believe him. He's been trying to figure out how to tell her at all.

She blinks in surprise, then looks away, down to her linked fingers in her lap. Her nails are pale and ragged. "I may not be able to without crying."

"I don't mind."

She gives him a little nod, then swallows. "He was tall, and very handsome, even when we were little." She smiles, edged with grief at the corners. "The girls were always chasing him. He always liked the attention. He was kind. I remember before our parents died, how he would do little things. Go to the store for our neighbor because she was old and it was cold outside, or walking someone's dog when they were sick. He always got something for it—money, or sweets, or cookies, like that—but he never expected it. Well," she amends, tilting her head. "He _hoped_ for it, maybe. But he would have helped anyway. And he would bring the things he got home and share them with me."

"He sounds like a good person," Sam says. "Was he older than you?"

She shakes her head. "Twins," she says softly. "We were twins." She swallows, and tears slip down her face. It makes her look ethereal, like a fairy queen. She smiles again, wet and sad. "He was twelve minutes older. He always liked reminding me."

Her reaction to Jack makes more sense, knowing that. Sam smirks for her, tries to maybe lift some of that grief for a moment. "Sounds like something I would do." 

"I would tell him that I was more loved because I was the baby." She wipes her eyes again, but she's still smiling. "He never believed it, but it always bothered him anyway."

"Was he a witch too?"

She shakes her head. "In our family, only the women have magic. Our mother did, and grandmother, and me. But not him."

"That's interesting," Sam says. "In my family it seems pretty random. My grandmother and my uncle were witches, but my dad wasn't." He nods at Riley. "He's the first person in his family to have magic for something like four generations."

"He uses it well."

"Oh, yeah." Sam smiles at his sleeping wingman. "He keeps downplaying it, but he's the best healer I know."

She puts her hand over her chest again. "I wish I could do that. Healing. I never could."

Sam licks his lips. "How did your brother die?" It's a risk. He has no idea if there's a cultural taboo about asking in Sokovia. She might be offended anyway. She might not be able to stand telling him. But he wants to understand how her pain could be the exact replica of a white-haired boy in New York, if that boy is her brother and supposed to be dead.

The witch clasps her hands together so hard they tremble, but now there's anger in her eyes. "Someone slit his throat."

"Oh, my God," Sam says in shock. "I'm so sorry. And you _saw_ it…?"

"Yes." She nods. "All of it."

Sam tries to imagine having to watch as his sister is murdered in front of him, and the idea alone is so horrible that he can't. "That's horrific. Why would anyone do that?"

She shakes her head in miserable incomprehension. "I think they were trying a spell. They killed a rabbit too, the same way. But I don't know why." The girl looks away. "The reason doesn't matter. My brother is dead either way."

"I'm sorry," Sam says again. "What happened to the person who did that? How did you escape?"

"I killed them. Then I ran."

"Good. I'm glad you got away," he adds when she looks at him.

She shrugs. "Sometimes," she says very quietly, "I miss Pietro so much that I wish I had not."

"I can understand that." Sam puts his hand over hers, trying to offer some comfort. "But if it matters at all, I'm really glad you're here. We owe you our lives. And even without that, I'm glad I got to meet you."

She doesn't smile, just stares at her hands. But, "My name is Wanda," she says.

"Wanda." Sam grins, squeezes her linked hands very gently before pulling away. "I'm really pleased to meet you."

She smiles back at him then, though it's small and full of sorrow. "Maybe Americans are not so bad."

"Well, we do have our—"

Jack sits bolt upright on the mattress, clutching his chest and gasping. Sam rockets to his feet, sure the kid is having a heart attack. "Riley!" he shouts, and his wingman's instantly awake too.

"Monarch!" Jack scrambles to his feet, then leans heavily against the wall with his eyes closed and grimacing. "I'm fine!" he snaps when Riley tries to take his arm. "But, the door. Open the door, please!"

Sam and Wanda look at each other, then at Jack. "What's going on?" Sam says.

"I think he's worse," Riley says. "Jack," he tries, cajoling. "You need to lie down. Let me see—"

"No!" Jack shoves him, staggers closer to the door. "Open it, please!" he begs.

Wanda goes to the door, but hesitates, looking at Riley. Riley gives her a pained look that clearly says she might as well but that he doesn't think there's any point. She works a quick spell that unlocks the door, then tries to open it carefully. But Jack staggers to the door and flings it open.

And in runs a perfectly ordinary [calico cat.](http://goo.gl/phbLDs)

"Monarch!" Jack crashes to his knees and the cat leaps into his arms. He hugs the animal to his chest, cradling her head against his cheek. "Thank God. Thank God." He's sobbing, weeping like a child as he holds the cat. Tears leak through the bandage covering his eye. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Monnie. I tried to find you—"

"It's not your fault. It's me. It was me," the cat says, in a perfectly reasonable woman's voice. And Sam's still gaping as she's nuzzling Jack's face and licking his tears. "I ran the wrong way and I got lost and I couldn't find you!"

"It's okay." Jack swallows heavily, then let the cat go with one hand so he can wipe his uncovered eye. "You're here. You found me. I'm never going to lose you again."

"Uh, what the fuck?" Riley says.

Sam blinks, then blinks again. "She's his familiar."

"Yeah." Jack nods, snuffling and wiping his eye again, still cradling the cat in his other arm. "I lost her when the mob cornered me. I thought I wasn't going to get her back."

"I'm right here. It's okay. I won't leave you again," Monarch says. Her purr is so loud Sam can hear it easily where he's standing.

He'd lost his _familiar_ , and Jack hadn't said a damn word the whole time, when he had no clue where the other half of his soul was. Sam has never met a witch with a familiar, but he knows about them. He knows about the soul-sharing, and how awful it is to be separated.

And Jack never said anything. Sam really doesn't want to probe the reasons behind stoicism like that.

Wanda, Sam realizes, has gone completely still with her hand flattened over her chest, so pale he moves closer to her in case she faints. Her eyes are enormous, staring at Jack and the cat in his arms.

"Are you all right?" Sam asks her. Riley's looking between Wanda and Jack like he's not sure which one will collapse first.

She shakes her head without looking at him, then drops to her knees next to Jack. He flinches back, yanking Monarch out of her reach.

"Please," Wanda says. She's still translucently pale. Her expression is a kind of awful hope. "Your familiar…Please, tell me…." She trails off like she doesn't know what to ask, gulping air as if she's in pain.

"Familiars are animals who share a witch's soul," Sam says, because Jack looks way too anxious and mistrustful to tell Wanda anything. "There's a ritual—"

"Yes!" Wanda whirls on him. The wildness in her eyes is back. They're alight with an intensity that frightens him. "What ritual? How is it done?"

"I don't know," Sam says. "I'm sorry. I don't have a familiar and this is the first time I met anyone who did."

"Wait," Jack says. Now he looks suspicious and confused. "Why are you asking about this? You already have a familiar."

" _What?_ " Wanda gapes, then shakes her head so fast she must make herself dizzy. "No. I don't. It is not possible…I cannot…."

"Hey, it's all right." Sam kneels as well, in case she keels over. She looks absolutely bloodless, like someone in shock. "It's all right. You—"

"It is not all right!" she snaps at him, then immediately looks at Jack again, desperate. "Tell me what you did. Please!"

Jack blinks. "Okay. It, uh, wasn't a ritual, though. Not for us, anyway." He looks bewildered, but at least he's no longer hostile. He moves the still-purring Monarch to his lap and pets her as he talks, one hand scratching under her chin and the other dragging through her fur. He bites his lip, looking at Wanda then down at his cat. "I, uh was twelve. And me and my sister were riding. Horseback riding," he adds, like they wouldn't get that. "We were racing, going really fast. And then this kitten runs across the trail. But I didn't see her. And…she got trampled."

Monarch headbutts his arm. "You know I forgave you for that."

Jack gives her a faint smile. "Yeah. Well. So, I trampled her. I didn't even know until the horse spooked and reared and I fell off. And then I saw her. This little crushed body in the grass. And…." He winces. "I don't know what happened. All I remember about it is that I picked her up and I didn't know what to do. I could hear Michelle crying, and I was trying not to. But, I just wished so badly that I hadn't done it. That the poor little cat dying in my arms would be all right."

"He became a witch like that, saving me," Monarch says. She's still purring, like a rumbling melody threading through her words.

Jack nods. "Everyone figured it'd be Michelle, not me. But, it was…there was this bright light—bright orange light—out of nowhere. And then it felt like I was tearing in half. I think I passed out because the next thing I know I'm on the ground and Michelle is shaking me and yelling at me to wake up. And the cat is fine. And she's yelling at me to wake up, too."

"You saw light? And there was pain with it?" Wanda looks like her life is hinging on his answer.

"Yes," Jack says. "Well, not _pain…._ " His face screws up as he thinks. "At first, yeah. A ton of pain, like I said. But not after, except it hurt anyway whenever we weren't touching. But that went away after maybe a couple of weeks. And now we just feel like that when we're far away from each other."

"Or if one of us is feeling very strong bad emotions," Monarch adds. "Today was really awful." She snags Jack's hand with a paw and starts grooming the base of his thumb.

Some of the torn-up feeling Sam got from Jack faded as soon as the cat was back in his arms, but he's still got so much terrible shit churning inside that Sam wonders how the cat can handle it. Maybe it's just habitude.

Wanda says something soft and fervent in Sokovian. She has both hands pressed to her chest like they're holding her heart inside her body. "Can…can you make a familiar from a person?" she asks on a whisper.

"No," Jack says, then clearly regrets it immediately when Wanda's face crumples. "I mean, I don't know. I've never—"

"Yes you can," Sam says, then nods when both Wanda and Jack stare at him. "My grandmother met a human who was also a familiar, back in 1939. She told me about him. He had the soul of a cat, as well as half his witch's soul along with his own." And one day Sam will meet him and repair the damage done to all three parts of him. He still has no clue how he'll possibly do that, but Hazel's never been wrong.

"He had an animal soul as well?" Wanda says. "A cat?"

Sam nods again. "Yeah."

Wanda puts her hand over her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears.

"What's wrong?" Jack asks her.

"I thought it meant he was dead," she says it to Jack but could be speaking to all or none of them. "The light and pain…. His throat was slit. I thought he was dead." She rubs her chest again. "But this…this pain means he's alive?"

Jack looks bewildered, but he nods.

"If I died, Jack would get sick," Monarch says.

"Yeah." Jack swallows. "I, uh, I'd probably die. At least, that's what happens most of the time. I mean, half your soul is gone. You can't really live without that."

"Or you wouldn't want to," Riley says.

Wanda starts crying, sobbing as heart-wrenchingly as Jack did.

Monarch jumps off Jack's lap and goes to Wanda, purring loudly. Wanda holds her tightly, dropping tears on her fur.

"Did you lose your familiar?" Jack asks her. He's surprisingly gentle, given all the acerbity before.

She nods, gulping. "I thought he was dead," she says between her sobs. "There was so much pain, and then he was gone….I thought he died!"

"Your familiar's not dead," Jack says. He hesitates, then puts his hand on her shoulder. "He's not dead," he says again. "If he were dead, you probably would be too."

Wanda looks at him, imploring. "How do I find him?"

Monarch suddenly lifts her head, ears swiveling. "Soldiers are coming."

Everyone freezes.

"Friendlies?" Jack asks.

Monarch nods, as close to beaming as a cat can get. "Yes! Your mother sent them."

"Thank God." Jack sags, rubbing his closed eye. He looks up at all of them, smiling in relief. "I don't know how you can find him," he says to Wanda. "My magic doesn't work like that. But I know someone who can help."

"His mom!" Monarch chirps. "She can find anything!"

"She must've used her magic to find me," Jack says. 

They can hear the thud of bootsteps on the stairs now. At least six, Sam thinks, coming fast. Monarch leaps back into Jack's arms and Sam helps him get out of the way of the door before it's kicked open.

"Don't shoot! It's me!" Jack shouts as the soldiers fan into the room, all with their rifles up and aimed.

The guns go down immediately. "Your Highness!" the soldier in the lead exclaims, and—holy shit—drops to one knee like they're in a Disney movie.

"'Your _Highness?_ '" Sam says to Jack.

Jack shrugs.

Wanda blinks at Sam. "You didn't know he's the crown prince of Gilboa?"

"Hi," Jack says.

* * *

They're barely two streets away from the café when Pietro stumbles, smacking his hands against the wall so he won't fall on his face. He's so dizzy he can barely see. "Wanda, help. Help me, something's wrong."

"What is it?" Wanda reaches for him, but then she blinks rapidly and puts her hands to her head. "What's going on?"

"I don't—" Pietro's suddenly he's on his hands and knees, cobblestones painful under his shins. He collapses onto his side, reaching blindly for his sister. He can hear her calling his name, but he can't make his mouth move properly to answer.

Someone lifts him back to his knees, and right then he's grateful for it, this rescue. He's hauled onto his feet, his arm across the shoulders of two men. They walk, dragging him between them. Every time he blinks they're farther away from where he fell.

He can blearily make out his sister, carried in a man's arms. Her hair swings back and forth. For a moment Pietro is mesmerized, then he blinks again and when he opens his eyes they're both in the back of a truck. There's a bit of daylight coming through the space around the closed hatch. The canvas walls shiver and rattle against the metal frame. The truck is moving.

He's on his back, lying on his arms. It's uncomfortable, but they won't budge when he tries to move them. Handcuffs, he thinks. They're trapped. Prisoners.

"Wanda! Wanda!" He's beside her but too far away to touch without moving, and his body won't obey him. His voice is soft even when he tries to shout, and his eyes won't stay open. Her magic might get them out of this, but his sister is unconscious, breathing fast and shallow like she's ill.

List, Pietro thinks. He did something. Something in the food. The anger wakes him up a little bit, enough to let him move a few centimeters, jostle Wanda with his foot. "Wanda, wake up!" They have to escape. List wants to do something to them. Something using Wanda's magic. Super powers, he said. But he also said he wanted to help them for nothing, and they knew that was a lie.

Whatever he's planning for them, they can't let him do it. 

"Wanda! Please!" He kicks her shin, but it does nothing except exhaust him. He fights as long as he can, but his eyes slide shut.

The truck drives on.

* * *

The jailbait is staring at him again.

It's January 2007 and Tony's 37 and more than old enough to know better than to encourage underage groupies, but the jailbait is _gorgeous_. Under normal circumstances—whatever those are—Tony would ride that like he stole it, humiliating age difference and all. Tonight though, it's late and he's tired and still pissed off at Obie. And honestly, he's so drunk right now that inviting the extremely attractive young man with the funky white hair home for a nightcap seems like an awesome idea, which probably means it isn't.

Besides, the jailbait is, sadly, young enough to be his kid, though Tony's fairly sure he's not. And Tony's not too sure about the whole heroin chic thing the kid's got going on either, what with the skeletal cheekbones and the shadows under his eyes. Or especially the way his very pretty eyes seem to be boring into Tony's _every single time_ Tony glances at him.

There's interest, and then there's _interest,_ and Jailbait's seems to be tipping a little too far towards the stalker end of the spectrum. And while this is New York, so at any time of night any two people could be conceivably walking in the same direction, Jailbait has been following Tony's attractive if uneven ambling for…well, he can't remember. But he's pretty sure it's been a long time.

He maybe shouldn't've told Happy to fuck off and let him walk home from the club, especially since it's really, really cold and he didn't bring a jacket. But he's almost at the Tower now (and it will always be Stark fucking Tower, just like it's always going to be Stark fucking Industries, no matter what Obie says about the name not having the same cachet without Howard. Howard's been dead for nearly 17 years, asshole), and through those lobby doors is plenty of warmth, light and security personnel.

He's close enough that Tony doesn't mind slowing down to give a big, bright 'maybe next time' smile to the jailbait, just in case he was following Tony for a booty call rather than homicide.

Except the kid's pretty eyes narrow like, sure, he wouldn't mind peeling Tony's clothes off with his teeth—along with all the skin underneath them.

"You are Tony Stark," he spits. His accent is almost as pretty as his eyes.

"Got it in one." Tony straightens, mentally sorting through his arsenal of spells. He doesn't have much in the way of offense, but a magical knack for knowing how things work also means a magical knack for knowing how to break them. He doesn't want to do that, but, well…he doesn't want to get flayed alive either. "And now that we both know you know my name, I'm going to go inside this big, really well protected tower and go to bed." He gives the jailbait a big, camera-ready smile and a sloppy salute and is suddenly somewhere else entirely.

Tony has _no clue_ how they're suddenly in this dusty abandoned restaurant that smells like cat piss and rancid grease. He sure as hell has no clue how he got duct-taped to the chair he's suddenly sitting in, but his wrists are firmly bound to the chair arms, just like his ankles are securely taped to the legs. It's a bar chair too, so his feet aren't touching the grimy flagstone floor. And if he tips himself over he'll probably bash his head in.

He remembers a rush of air like he was on a motorcycle, but everything else is just…. The last thing Tony knows for sure is that he was almost outside his building. Was he drugged? Sucker punched? His clothes don't seem any filthier when he looks at himself. He feels exactly as drunk as he did before, though more nauseous now. Definitely more nauseous.

The jailbait is standing in front of him holding a nearly used up roll of duct tape. He looks exactly the same too, which is to say both really, really pretty and unbelievably fucking angry and dangerous.

"Did Obie send you?" Tony asks before he can censor himself.

Jailbait makes an expression too ugly to be a sneer. "No."

"Okay, good," Tony breathes. He didn't _actually_ think that Obie would want him kidnapped, even if he was really angry with him. "You know who I am, so you probably know that what you're doing is a really, really bad idea. Seriously," he plows on when the kid just glares at him. "There are cops on the way here right now."

Jailbait scoffs. "No one is coming to help you."

That's ominous as fuck, thanks. Tony sends out a tendril of his magic to pluck at the tape, find the weak spots where he can pull, but he needs to speak to channel it. He hopes the kid won't see the blue shine of his magic. "Do I know you?" Tony tries. "I mean, you don't look familiar, but I've obviously pissed you off somehow. And while I'll admit that's kind of a pastime, I really can't think of where we would've met. Unless you're a prodigy and we met at a conference. Or you want a job or something. In which case I'll give you props for originality, but there are definitely better ways to get my attention—"

"Shut up!" Jailbait backhands him across the face, which hurts a truly amazing amount and nearly sends the chair toppling. Tony's stomach swoops as he tips, his magic fizzling like a wet fuse. The kid grabs him before he pitches all the way over. Tony would be happy about that, except for how a second later he vomits really expensive alcohol all over his shirt. 

Jailbait makes that too-ugly sneer face again. "You are disgusting."

Tony glares at him, his chest heaving. The smell of his vomit makes him want to throw up again. "What do you want?" 

"I want nothing from you," the kid spits through his very nice teeth. "There is no way to return what you stole from me. All I want is for you to suffer the way I have before I kill you."

Well, that doesn't sound good.

Tony swallows down more bile. He can taste blood in his mouth too, where his teeth lacerated his cheek. His head is spinning like a fucking gyroscope. "Look. I can see you're pretty pissed about whatever it is you think I did. But I'm sure we never met before, so I have no idea what I could've done." He carefully sends his magic to pluck the tape again. He needs to keep talking. "I don't know how you think you know me. Did your parents work for Stark Industries? Were they laid off? Because we have a back-to-work plan in place and they should've been rehired by now—"

He doesn't see Jailbait move, but all of a sudden the kid has his hand around Tony's throat, digging his thumb into the underside of his jaw. It hurts more than the backhand did. Tony makes a squeaking noise that must express the level of agony he's in, because after a way too long moment he's finally let go.

"Ow. Fuck." Tony gasps. His lips are swelling where the kid hit him. A thin line of bloody spit slides down his chin. It itches.

"I know you speak your magic, witch. Stop talking or I will break your jaw."

"If you wanted quiet you should've kidnapped someone else." His spell isn't working anyway. He generally makes them up on the fly, but he needs to repeat phrases to channel the magic or it won't happen. He's pretty sure the kid will notice that. "You know you're not going to get money, right? There's a policy—"

Jailbait hits him again, then grabs Tony's shirt before the chair goes over. "I don't want your money!" He shouts while Tony blinks swirling constellations out of his eyes. "I want you _dead!_ I want you to suffer the way my parents did, you murderer!"

"Wh…wait. Wait." Tony's drooling blood now, from whatever new chunk of his mouth this white-haired psycho's just shredded. His ears are ringing. "I never killed anybody."

" _Liar!_ " Jailbait hauls his free arm back like he's going to hit Tony a third time, but he doesn't. His fist hovers there like an unlaunched missile. "Your weapons," he snarls. "Your guns. Your mortars. Your bombs! Do you even know how many lives you've destroyed?"

Tony wipes his chin on his shoulder, which only smears blood up his cheek. He wishes he could lie down on the floor, press his aching head to the cool flagstone. Being hit while drunk is already on his top ten list of things to never experience again. "I'm not responsible for what people do with our products." He tries to spit out more blood but only gets a wad of it on his shirt.

Jailbait doesn't hit him, but he shoves his thumb into Tony's jaw again. Wow, that hurts. "Yes you are! You built them! You sold them! My parents are dead because of you!"

"Your parents are dead because of who killed them," Tony manages through his puffy, bleeding mouth and the kid's thumb like a spike under his chin.

"With your weapons!"

"Their…fault," Tony croaks. "Torture…them."

" _It's your fault!_ " The boy stabs his thumb so hard that Tony's head tips back until he's practically looking behind him. Nausea hits him like a brick and he pukes again. Only he can't spit it out like this and suddenly he's choking. He's going to drown in his own vomit because can't speak to beg for help and he can't breathe and—

He's out of the chair, on his hands and knees coughing and sobbing for air. Jailbait is kneeling beside him, pounding his back with his other arm around Tony's waist.

"M'…m'okay," he murmurs. The kid helps him up to lean against the dusty restaurant bar. Tony sits chugging air, wiping his streaming nose and eyes. "Thank you."

The kid is crouching just out of reach, arms wrapped around his torso. He looks like he's trying not to cry. "I should have let you die."

Tony spits more crap out of his mouth, wipes his lips on his sleeve. Sliced duct tape flutters from both his forearms. He doesn't know what to say to that, other than how he's glad the kid didn't. That's probably obvious.

"Where are you from?" he asks.

"Sokovia."

"Oh." _Oh._ "Stark Industries only sells weapons to diplomatically recognized governments," Tony says. "We didn't know they would turn them on their own people. We, uh, stopped dealing with them after the first uprising."

The kid glares at him. His eyes are wet. "How kind of you."

Tony's getting really cold. "I'm sorry about your parents."

"Fuck you!" The kid leaps to his feet, fists clenched and shaking. "You say you are sorry? You murdered them! You murdered them! I should kill you," he grinds out. "I promised my sister I would kill you. You deserve to die."

"I am sorry about your parents," Tony says. "But, I didn't kill them. Your government did."

" _They were your weapons!_ "

"Yes they were." Tony nods. Carefully. "I designed them, but I didn't point them at your family. Your government did." He takes a breath that trembles going into his lungs. He pretends it's just the cold. "My parents died about ten years before yours did. Awesome coincidence, I know. But." He takes another breath. It's like the air's fucking rationed. "Here's the thing. The car fucking burst into flame after driving off the road. That's not how…." He swallows. "They didn't burn to death. At least. My dad was killed in the impact. But my mom…my mom suffocated. From the smoke. That was the car company's fault. She might've lived, if…." He gives his head a shake which he instantly regrets, but it keeps him from seeing the aftermath pictures in his mind again: the black, shriveled husks of their bodies. "I could've gone after the car company, right? Just like you went after me. They fucked up. My mom might be alive if the car hadn't burned. I could've sued them into the ground. Or, hell. I could've killed the C.E.O.. Why not? I'm rich. I probably would've gotten away with it. But the car wouldn't've burned if my dad hadn't driven it off the road. My mom is dead because my father was a fucking selfish alcoholic asshole who couldn't stay sober long enough to get to the airport."

"You are trying to make me feel sorry for you," the kid spits. "I only wish you were in the car when your father crashed it. Get to the point."

Tony's mouth twitches in the direction of a smirk. He's wished he'd been in the car too, more than once. Only occasionally because he might've saved them. "My point is, the way I see it, you have a choice—"

The kid sucks in a breath and his eyes go huge. He backs up a step. "What did you say?" His voice is low and ugly, but he looks….

Tony doesn't know how the kid looks, but it's not good. "I said you have a choice," he repeats. "You can kill me. I'll be dead along with your parents. You'll eventually go to prison once the cops find you—which they will, since I'm kind of a big deal—and Stark Industries will go on making weapons and selling them. Or, we can both walk out of here. I'll say I got mugged and forget you ever existed. And you can go do something with your life that your parents would be proud of."

"My parents are dead!" He starts crying in earnest, wiping furiously at his eyes. "My family is dead! Nothing I do will change that!"

"I know." Tony wipes his mouth again. He's shaking badly now, so cold he can't feel his fingertips or his feet anymore. "But you can still honor their memory by not being a dick." He crosses his arms over his disgusting shirt, trying to get a little warmer. "You could've just let me choke on my own vomit, but you didn't. So I'm gonna take a gamble here and say you don't actually want to kill me." His smirk is bloodless. "On the other hand, chances are I'll just freeze to death."

The kid growls something in Sokovian, then spits on the floor. Tony has no idea what the hell he said, but it's pretty damn eloquent. The kid wipes his eyes again, then goes closer and holds out his hand. "Get up."

Tony smacks his freezing hand around the kid's forearm. He needs a lot of help getting to his feet. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you."

There's a freezing rush of air before Tony can say anything else. Then he's outside his tower, a lot the worse for wear but very much alive. The tape on his arms and legs is gone. So is the angry jailbait.

Tony wobbles his way inside and staggers to his private elevator. He thinks the overnight receptionist might roll his eyes when he gives his desultory, "Good evening, Mr. Stark," but Tony could give a damn. 

He stumbles out of the elevator into his penthouse suite, then barely takes the time to toe off his extremely expensive shoes before he goes to the bar and pours himself a full glass of the first bottle he finds. It's been a hell of a night; he could use something to warm him up and steady his nerves. 

He's not actually any warmer or steadier when he finally flops naked onto the bed just as dawn is gilding the windows. But when he wakes up some time the next afternoon his abduction is just another awful, alcohol-tinged memory, careening unconnected among all his other ones. 

Tony Stark tells himself that's just fine. He's used to awful memories; he has a hell of a lot of them.

* * *

It's 2005, and last week Pietro and Wanda spent their birthday in a cage.

Pietro is fairly certain their birthday came and went, because there's a calendar on the wall and the pages have been flipped several times. He can't make out the month, though, since it's on the far side of the room from their cells, and whatever drugs they keep giving him make it hard to see.

He doesn't know if they're trying to make him a witch. Maybe they're trying to make him a super hero like Captain America, the way they said. Maybe they just like hurting him. He thinks, sometimes when it's not too painful to push the thoughts around, that whatever they're doing is just to keep his sister from killing all of them. He knows she could. He's seen what she can do now: how many objects she can move at once; her precision with them regardless of their size or weight. He's seen her make things explode and read minds. He knows she can force people to do her bidding.

But she doesn't do any of that. She doesn't stop Dr. List when he straps her to the cot and shoves more poison into her veins and Pietro can do nothing but witness her agony. She doesn't crush von Strucker's throat when he comes and stares like they're animals at a zoo. It enrages Pietro and scares him, because he knows how easily she can escape. But she doesn't. They've been prisoners for months, but she hasn't done anything.

So he's pretty sure that's why they keep shoving poison into him too, even though he's useless to them. Wanda will do anything to protect him, and they know it.

He's useless to her, too. He can't do anything other than try to smile in reassurance as she's marched past him, because the clear walls of their cells are warded against vibrations and sound. They're also warded against breaking, since he sure as hell can't get out. Wanda probably could, but she won't.

It goes on like this for a long time. Until the day when Strucker comes down the stairs into the dungeon laboratory he and Wanda are kept in, and he's carrying a small cage holding a white, pink-eyed rabbit.

* * *

The buzzer rings at exactly 6:05 AM. Hazel sighs and heaves herself out of bed, then puts on the thick bathrobe her son gave her before going into the living room and pressing 6 on the phone. She put her robe near the bed last night because she knew she'd need it ridiculously early in the morning, just like she didn't ask who wants in because she didn't need to.

She unlocks her apartment door and leaves it partially open as she goes into the kitchen and fills the kettle. Coffee, this time. She needs the caffeine even if he doesn't. And she can put lots of milk and sugar in his.

It's only as she's putting the kettle on the stove that she realizes he's not using his speed, since he would've been at her door at least ten time over by now. She can even hear his slow, plodding steps on the stairs. Hazel ignites the burner and turns up the flames, then goes to greet the white-haired boy as he stumbles his way in.

He's exhausted. Hazel doesn't need her magic to see that. He's exhausted and so, so sad, and sick to the depths of his tattered soul. "Oh, honey." Hazel wraps her arms around him, pulls him close. She would never have dared to touch him like this when they first met, but he holds her tightly now. He rests his head on her shoulder and weeps.

She puts her hand on the back of his head, cradling him to her. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay, honey. You did the right thing. You know that. You did the right thing."

His only response is tears.

Hazel holds him until the boy's hysterical sobs quiet to miserable sniffling and he lifts his head and wipes his eyes. He's using the heel of his hand and his nose is running. He looks like a much younger child. "I betrayed my family," he says, then wipes his nose on the underside of his sleeve. "I promised them that Stark would pay for his crimes, but I couldn't do it." He snarls something wetly in a language she's now sure is Sokovian. "I am a coward."

"You don't believe that." The kettle whistles and Hazel lets go of the boy to gather the French press and coffee tin. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here. You didn't come to tell me you're a coward. You came to show me you're a good man."

He wipes his eyes again. "I don't know what to do now."

"Sit down and drink your coffee," Hazel says. She fills the press, gets the cream and coffee and then gets the banana bread she made yesterday out of the fridge. She cuts it into thick slices and puts it on a plate. When she turns to pour the coffee, the carafe is empty and the mugs and the plate are already in the living room. The boy is sitting with one of the cups between his hands. "Oh. Thank you."

He nods, wipes at his eyes again. Hazel nudges the box of tissues closer to him before she sits down.

"After my sister died, my only reason to live was to kill Stark," he says. "That is why I am in America. Just to kill him. If I don't, then I don't know why I'm alive anymore."

She pats his knee. "Drink your coffee."

He scowls but dutifully takes a sip. "Coffee will not change anything."

"No it won't. But it's nice and hot." Hazel sips her own coffee, then breaks off a piece of a banana bread slice and eats it. She prefers it warm, but it's still nice and sweet. The boy breaks off part of his own slice as soon as she does, just like she knew he would. "What's your name?"

He blinks, apparently just realizing he never gave it. "Pietro. Pietro Maximoff."

She smiles at him. "Pleased to meet you, Pietro."

He gives her a tentative smile back; he really is a lovely young man. "I went back for your card," he says sheepishly.

It takes her a moment to understand what he's talking about, then she remembers how he'd dropped her business card on the floor of the donut shop. "Well, I'm glad you did."

"You knew I was going to come back, didn't you?"

Hazel shakes her head, takes another sip and another piece of the banana bread. "I didn't know you'd get my card. But I did know it was you when my buzzer rang."

He nods, then finishes his slice of bread. She can feel how hungry he is the way she can feel his misery and pain. "I have some leftover stew in the fridge. I know it's not breakfast food, but would you like it?"

Pietro looks at her sharply, like he can't decide if he should be grateful, suspicious or offended. It's a lot like his reaction when she gave him the donuts, except his stomach rumbles, deciding for him. Hazel smiles but manages not to laugh. "Yes," he says finally. "That would be very kind. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She pats his knee again before she gets up, lamenting the creaking in her own. "Do you remember what I told you in the donut shop, when I read your palm?" She pulls the container with the stew out of the fridge. There's enough there for at least two meals, but she dumps all of it in to a big bowl and reheats it in the microwave. She's reminded of Barnes again—it's impossible not to be reminded of Barnes—and sends up a silent prayer for Jesus to watch over him.

"You said if I was patient, if I did not kill Stark, then I would see my sister again." He sniffs, wipes his nose again. "I did not believe you."

"Do you believe me now?" The microwave beeps and once again Pietro zips in and back before she can even blink. She gets him a fork out of the drawer.

He's sitting on the couch with the bowl in his lap when she returns. He takes the fork she hands to him, but trails it through the gravy instead of eating. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

"That's understandable." She settles back onto the couch. "And I know that my telling you it's true won't change a damn thing." She nods at her cell phone over on the kitchen counter. "That was a gift from my grandson. He's going to call soon, and you should be here when he does."

Pietro stabs a piece of meat, looking at her with an expression of reluctant suspicion before turning his gaze back to his plate. "You will not be able to keep me here if I want to go."

"I know," Hazel says easily. "I said you should stay, not that you had to. But I hope you will." She watches him shrug again, then sips from her mug and lets him eat without answering her. She eats the last of her bread slice, then washes it down with the last of her coffee. "I'd like to do another reading for you, when you're ready."

He frowns at her, then goes back to his mostly empty stew bowl, shrugging as he forks up another bite. "If you must. I will not stop you."

"Thank you." She takes his big, strong hand in her soft, plump one. "You're not alone anymore, Pietro. Whatever happens, you got someone in your corner."

He looks at her, than down at his hand. His fingers twitch but he doesn't pull away. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

She wraps his hand in both of hers. "Well, maybe I'm just an old busybody who cares what happens to everyone." She squeezes his hand, smiling a little at the eyeroll she fully expected. "Or maybe it's because you got a good soul, Pietro Maximoff, and you deserve to have someone caring what happens to you."

"Thank you." He swallows, then bites his lip and looks away as he wipes his eyes. "I am glad that I did not kill Stark." He finishes his coffee in a long gulp, then puts it on the coffee table and wipes his mouth with his hand. "I am ready for your reading."

"All right, then." She takes his cup and swirls the last of the liquid in it, leaving streaks and dots of coffee grounds on the inside. 

Pietro finishes his meal and puts the bowl on the table, watching her bemusedly. "I thought you read palms."

"Honey, I can read anything." It's more the object than the contents anyway, always has been. She asks Jesus for His guidance and blessing as she helps Pietro find his way.

"What are you looking for?"

"I'll know when I find it. Now hush and let me work." She grins when he makes a face then huffs out a breath and takes more banana bread. She begins her chant.

His future is awfully unclear, which is frustrating though not much of a surprise. He was so deeply certain of his fate for so long that right now his path is thrashing helplessly in front of him like a salamander's severed tail.

His own soul is green like the leaves in summer right before they're full grown, with dazzling dots of colorless light like sunshine. Scarlet flows through it all like paint. She saw the red before, but it's even brighter and more definite now, coloring his future as inevitably as the sun rising outside the windows. The red soaks his future like flowers after heavy rain. She pokes at it, testing. It's anything but placid, much like Pietro himself. But it's for life, not for dying. She can hear laughter, like a distant, impossible hope.

Oh, hell yes, his sister is alive.

"You will be so loved, Pietro," she says, before resuming the chanting again.

He snorts like he doesn't believe her, then looks away like he wants to. He rubs his chest.

But love is his fate, not an answer. She catches the writhing, directionless salamander tail and pulls it straight, looking for something concrete and real that she can tell him. What he'll _do_ still looms, wide as a canyon with possibilities. But what he'll _be_ ….

"Huh." She blinks, then puts the cup down and grabs Pietro's right hand, pulling his arm across his body so she can spread his palm beneath her eyes. She ignores his, 'What? What?', because she doesn't know herself yet. Only that suddenly his future is dependent on something that's orange as a sunset and ragged as an old flag. Black flits through it like butterflies, as gentle and cruel as the night. And all of it blazing so hot and strong it could burn the unwary alive.

It's in Pietro's future, and it's coming soon. For the life of her, Hazel doesn't know if she should tell him to wait for it or run.

She stops chanting to tell him… _something_. She has no idea what. And of course that's when the phone rings.

"Be a dear and—" He's gone and back before she can finish the sentence, holding out the phone. "Thank you." She smiles at him, then at the picture of Sam on her phone, requesting a face-to-face conversation on Starktime. She accepts the call and beams down at her grandson's handsome, beloved face. Pietro hovers at her side, curious but careful not to get in the way of the little screen. "Sam! It's so good to see you! Are you all right?"

He's beaming back at her, so she's almost certain of the answer. It's still just as good to hear it from his own lips. "I'm just fine, Grandma. Riley is too. He and I got into some trouble rescuing another soldier, but a young witch helped us." He definitely sounds fine: excited and happy, given his huge smile. His soul is glowing with it. "I called because I have something really important to tell you."

The wall behind him looks like whitewashed concrete, and the sounds in the background make Hazel sure he's in a hospital, but he wouldn't lie to her if he or his wingman were badly injured, and she knows it's not Riley's time yet. Poor man. "You found the one you weren't supposed to pass up, didn't you?"

If he's surprised she knew, he doesn't show it. "Yeah, I did." His grin gets even wider. "Just a sec." He looks to the side. "Hey, Wanda! Wanda, come here! I want you to meet my grandma. She's a witch like you, and she'll know how to fin— What are you doing here?" he says to Pietro, who's just snatched the phone out of Hazel's hand.

"Wanda? Did you say the name 'Wanda'?" The boy can barely speak for how his heart's tripping up his pulse. He has the phone in both his hands because they're shaking.

"Holy shit." Sam blinks. "Okay, wait. Here she is." He passes the phone to someone else: a lovely, fragile-looking young woman whose large eyes become enormous when she sees the screen.

" _Pietro?_ "

"Wanda!" Pietro says something in Sokovian, hushed and reverent. Wanda says something back in the same exact tone. And then they're both sobbing and laughing and talking at once. Pietro sits on the end of the couch, hunched over the phone and cradling it in his hands. He barely glances at Hazel as she gets up, but the smile he still gives her is big and sweet and astonished and so, so _happy_. Hazel doesn't have to see the screen to know his sister looks the same way. 

She goes to get ready for the day, not bothering to hurry. Pietro will be on the phone a long time.

* * *

It's about noon when Sam calls Hazel, and about twelve hours later when Wanda finally gets off the phone with Pietro. At some point Sam gets his phone back when Jack quietly slips Wanda his own and Sam dials Hazel's number for her. Jack's home screen is a picture of his twin sister with Monarch in her lap. It's not a remarkable shot, other than how it's a photo of the freaking _Crown Princess of Gilboa_ and the Crown Prince's familiar. But there's something about it so palpable with longing that Sam doesn't like looking at it.

They're in the Gilboan military base just about smack-dab in the center of the triangle marking the southwestern borders of Latveria and Symkaira. Other than the orange flags with the butterfly motif everywhere, everything seems so American Sam keeps being confused by the Aramaic writing all over the place. Hell, all the soldiers are so fluent in English that Sam has to concentrate to hear an accent.

Everyone's been so nice to him, Riley and Wanda, that it's gotten close to unnerving a couple times. Riley's joked about how they're being prepped for the human sacrifices later, which Sam was thrilled no Gilboan was around to hear. Privately, it would've barely surprised him.

The Gilboan military certainly seem to love the son of their king.

Right now the three of them are wearing insignia-less Gilboan combat uniforms while they wait for their clothes to be washed. They're in the ridiculously well-appointed Officer's Mess, drinking thick, sweet coffee and eating honey cake which Riley decided was so good it was worth nearly getting stoned to death for. Wanda said it was the best dessert she's ever tasted, but Sam's pretty sure she could've been eating the completely ordinary brownies from the American mess and she would've said the exact same thing. Honestly, she's so happy he's not even sure she noticed what on her plate. She keeps smiling at Jack's phone and stroking the screen like it's a small, fuzzy pet. 

Sam, Riley and Wanda got whisked off for showers, fresh clothes and food right after Sam called his grandmother. They left Jack—sans phone—and Monarch at the base hospital, with Jack having a scowling conversation in Aramaic with an anxious member of the medical corps. They haven't seen him since.

Riley notices Wanda touching the phone again and frowns, then looks at the door where Jack still hasn't appeared. "You think he's okay?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Sam says, patting Riley on the shoulder. Riley worries about everyone they've ever rescued, especially when he heals them. He seems a little more worried than normal, but then again he's never healed royalty before. "You know your magic never fails."

Riley shrugs, glancing at the door again. "Only if they're not hurt too bad."

"I am sure he is fine," Wanda says, beaming at both of them. She looks back at Jack's phone. "Do you think he would mind if I called Pietro again?"

Sam's about to say 'no', but he's interrupted by several people coming down the prefabricated corridor into the mess. The three of them turn and look in time to see a small entourage of official-looking men and women, most of them in expensive civvies. They're all following a stern, middle-aged man with black hair in the middle of the group, who's followed a half step behind by Jack, clean and dressed in a fresh uniform with a Lieutenant's bar that's almost the same as what they use in the States. His familiar Monarch is cradled in one arm with her chin on his shoulder. A single, wide bandage has replaced the headwrap Riley used. Jack's left eye is half-shut with bruising, but it already looks way better than when they scraped him off the street. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach anywhere near his multihued eyes.

"See?" Sam elbows Riley. "He's fine, just like—"

"Stand up," Wands hisses. "That's the king!"

"What?" Sam frowns at her, puzzled. "No. That's Ja—OhmyGod." That's why the older man looked strangely familiar. Shit.

Sam and Riley rocket to their feet next to Wanda. He glances at her, wondering if he should salute, bow, take a knee or what. She's just standing straight with her hands clasped demurely in front of her, which isn't much help.

Luckily it's the king himself who saves Sam from his ignorance of absolute monarchies by striding forward to shake their hands. "I hear my son owes you his life," King Silas says. He holds Sam's forearm, his expression alight and sincere in the way only a man permanently in the spotlight can manage. "I can't thank you enough. Gilboa is eternally in your debt."

"I'm just glad we were in a position to help," Sam says. Silas' soul is deep, broody maroon, and it feels like the kind of overstuffed armchair you sink into then have to climb out of. He's not _evil_ , but something about him makes Sam's skin crawl all the same. He's very happy when the king lets him go.

"Thank God for His providence," Silas agrees fervently, then takes Riley's hand and forearm. "Jack said you're the most skilled healer he's ever met. Isn't that right, Jack?" There's something a little too sharp in the king's smile when he looks at his son, then something a little too knowing and cruel when Jack just nods silently and looks away.

"All in a day's work, Your Majesty," Riley says. Sam knows Riley saw what happened between Silas and Jack, but his wingman's smart enough to ignore it.

Sam is too, though he doesn't like it. Wanda's soul still has that ragged edge where her brother should be, but it feels as bright, new and hopeful as a freshly-bandaged wound. Jack's soul, on the other hand, feels worse now than when his familiar was missing. Whatever Silas's words meant, he just flayed his own child alive.

Sam sneaks a glance at Jack while Silas isn't looking. The prince has his head down, petting his familiar. She reaches up with a paw and touches him gently on the chin.

What the hell has Jack's father been doing to him?

"Your son is very brave, and very kind," Wanda tells him, after Silas kisses the back of her hand.

Silas glances at Jack, who still isn't looking at anyone. "He'll make a good king someday." It sounds a lot less like a promise than an ultimatum. "Now!" He claps his hands and rubs his palms together briskly. "Jack tells me this young lady is trying to reunite with her brother." He gestures at the table they vacated. "Sit. Please." He grins. "I hate people standing on ceremony."

Sam's sure he really doesn't, but he laughs politely and does as Silas says. A couple members of the entourage quietly push one of the other tables over to make a larger one, then pull out chairs for the royals. Silas and Jack sit. Jack puts Monarch on the chair next to him. Some of the entourage sit nearby, and a couple quietly rush to the kitchen, maybe to make sure the food isn't poisoned.

The last one slides a black leather document envelope in front of Wanda. She takes it, then looks at the king questioningly. "This is for me, Your Majesty?"

"It is." He smiles, nodding at the envelope. "Open it."

She does, then blinks wonderingly at the contents, which are in both Aramaic and English. "I don't understand—are these travel visas?"

"They are indeed." Silas grins brilliantly, then leans back and claps his son on the shoulder. Jack startles, then gives them all a practiced smile as white and remote as a star. "My boy's idea."

"The Gilboan Consulate can officially issue him the papers to let him travel to Gilboa, even without a passport," Jack says. "You'll be granted official refugee status in Gilboa, once we get home and we can arrange it. Your brother's been given asylum, since he's technically applying from the U.S.." He seems happy for her, but his smile is all veneer, nothing like his genuine emotions back during the rescue. His soul is roiling in tangled orange and black shreds, hurting so bad that it's instinct for Sam to touch him, start a spell that'll smooth out some of that pain.

Riley knows Sam well enough that he can tell what his wingman's planning. He kicks Sam under the table before Sam does something stupid, like grab the Crown Prince in front of the King.

"You'll let us stay in Gilboa? Just like that?" Wanda looks between Silas and Jack in abject astonishment.

Silas takes her small hand in his, squeezing it gently. "You saved my son's life, Miss Maximoff. Giving you and your brother a home is the least I can do."

Wanda puts her hand over her mouth, fresh tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Highness," she says to Jack. She gets out of her seat. It's obvious she's going to hug him, but she hesitates.

Jack stands and hugs her instead. "Don't call me 'Your Highness.' I'm the same guy who nearly puked on your bed."

"You were born to that title, Jack. Use it," Silas says. His voice is as jovial as his smile, but there's implacable ice in his eyes.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," Jack says stiffly. He lets go of Wanda and steps back. "On behalf of Gilboa, you are most welcome."

Wanda blinks wet eyes, then goes on tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek. She turns to Silas, who's been watching her with appraisal in his eyes. Wanda's wearing trousers, but she still gives him a curtsy so perfect it could've come out of a fairytale. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Silas kisses her hand again. "You're most welcome, my dear." He looks past her, to where a woman who must be the head chef herself is carrying a tray brimming with food even finer than what Sam, Riley and Wanda just ate. "Ah, excellent." He beams at everyone. "I'm starving. You don't mind if Jack and I eat, do you?"

The question is entirely rhetorical and Silas doesn't even wait for an answer before he nods at the chef as she places the dishes and a carafe of coffee on the table. The woman all but flees back to the kitchen. Sam's not sure if she's overwhelmed or just terrified.

King Silas tucks heartily into his meal. Jack looks uncomfortable, but he glances at Riley and eats as well.

Sam wonders if Silas really doesn't notice, or just pretends not to see how Jack gives most of his meal to his cat.

* * *

Turns out, the bureaucratic machinery chugs pretty damn fast for you when you're a king.

Silas glad-hands the troops for an hour or so, Jack right beside him, and then it's suddenly time for Wanda and Jack to fly back to Gilboa with the king.

Sam's not even sure his unit knows he and Riley are still alive, until a briskly competent corporal marches up to them and says a helicopter is waiting to take them back to their base.

"I could get used to this," Riley says.

"I'm just glad we don't have to hitchhike," Sam tells him.

They get a duffel with their gear and now-clean uniforms, get told that they can keep the Gilboan uniforms they're wearing, and then get led out to the tarmac. The royal equivalent of Marine One is looming near their plain Black Hawk (Orange Hawk? Butterfly Hawk?), with Gilboan soldiers standing guard on either side of the steps.

"Our ride looks like the big one's baby," Riley says, then waves to Wanda, who's already there standing next to Silas and Jack. Jack's standing between her and his father, his body angled in a way that makes Sam sure Jack's protecting her from the king. Sam doesn't know whether that's because of Jack's issues or if there's something even uglier about his father than Sam already guessed. Sam hopes it's the former.

Monarch is sitting on her haunches at Jack's feet, looking like the most regal calico Sam's ever seen. She has one paw on his foot.

It's only because Sam and Riley have almost reached the helicopter, and Sam's looking right at the prince that he even notices it: the way Jack does a quick, onceover sweep with his eyes of the two of them—and then settles for half a second longer on Riley. His expression is completely neutral, as if it was just idle curiosity and meant nothing. It'd be easy enough to dismiss it as nothing. Except Sam has felt Jack's soul. It's not nothing.

Silas' strangely pointed remarks back in the mess make a lot more sense now, just like Jack's pain. Sam wonders if the king has any idea how he's destroying his own child.

Sam shakes the king's hand and thanks him for all his help anyway. Not like his anger's going to do a damn thing to make this right.

"I guess this is goodbye, huh?" Sam says once they're close enough for regular conversation. He drops the duffel to give Wanda a hug. "Thank you again for saving our lives. You're one hell of a witch. I bet one day I'll see you on the news, using your power to save the world."

She laughs. "That would be surprising. But thank you. You are kind." She steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Thank you for helping me find my brother." She beams at him with tears in her newly-bright eyes. "You have given me back part of my heart. I only hope one day I can repay you."

"Just be happy. That's payment enough. Oh, and say hi to your brother for me. Tell him he'd better be treating my grandma with respect or I'll kick his ass."

Wanda laughs again. It's like she's just remembered how. "I will make sure he knows."

Sam grins at her, then picks up the duffel and steps aside, so Riley can say his farewells to her. Sam has no idea what Riley might've said to Jack, but he knows for sure he gave Jack a hug because that's Riley all over. "Your Highness," he says before Jack can say anything or stick out his hand to shake. "Would it be all right if I spoke to you alone for a minute?"

Jack's eyebrows go up, then he looks at his father.

Silas nods. "Don't be too long."

Sam grits his teeth.

Jack picks up Monarch and lays her across his shoulders like a stole. Sam leads him almost all the way back to the base, to be sure they're out of earshot.

"What's going on?" Jack asks as soon as they stop. He grins. "Gilboa doesn't take defectors from the U.S."

Sam doesn't smile. He puts his hand on Jack's arm, hoping he'll take it as support and not entrapment. "This is important," he says. "I really need you to listen. Don't talk, just listen. Okay?" Sam purposely keeps his voice as gentle as he can, so Jack blinks in surprise but just nods. Sam nods in return, squeezes his arm a bit. Then he remembers that Monarch is a familiar, not just a cat, and says to her, "I'm not going to hurt him. I'm trying to help. Will you let me do that?"

He has no idea what proper protocol is for familiars, but he figures he's done it right when she puts her paw on his hand. "I will," she says, but extends her claws just enough so he can feel the points. It's a very effective warning.

"Remember, you need to listen," Sam says to Jack. He licks his lips. "I saw you checking us out. It's okay. I'm not going to say anything to anyone. Not even Riley," he adds immediately, because Monarch's ears are flat and Jack's face has gone white. "It's your secret and I respect that. I promise, no one else is gonna know." Jack swallows, but nods. Sam pats his arm, then clasps him as close to his shoulder as he can get with the cat there. "Here's the thing. Your dad is wrong. Whatever he's been saying to you. Whatever he's done that makes your soul hurt so badly. He's wrong. There is _nothing_ wrong with you. You hear that, right?" Sam waits for another nod from Jack, and gets one from Monarch as well. At least the prince is listening, even if Sam's sure only the cat believes him. "Your soul isn't tainted. You're a good man, Jack. Who you love has nothing to do with that, as long as you treat them right. And I want you to know this, because you deserve more than being warped on the inside because of what your dad's done to you."

Jack swallows. His eyes are red. "Not just my dad," he rasps. Monarch does a cat headbutt on his cheek.

"Your mother too? I'm sorry," Sam says sincerely when Jack nods. "Your parents should be in your corner, not forcing you to hide who you are."

"My father says I can't be king if I'm gay."

Well, that's a fucking surprise. "Do you want to be king?"

Jack stares at him. Sam's certain he's never been asked that before. "My father—"

"I know what your father wants," Sam says. "What do you want?"

Jack blinks again, then looks away. "Not to live like this."

"Okay." Sam gives his shoulder a pat. "That's a good place to start. Now, if you really, truly want to be king, you can change things so that nobody will have to live like this. Or, you can abdicate, and find a different life that makes you happy."

Jack wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. "It's not that simple."

"Yes it is," Monarch says. She rubs his cheek with her furry face. "I've told you that for years. You don't have to be who they want just because you're their kitten."

Sam smiles at the cat. "She's right, but I know it must feel complicated as hell. But not much worth having isn't." He sees Riley trotting up to them, so he squeezes Jack's shoulder one more time before he lets go. "Look alive. It's time to go back."

Monarch gives him a slow blink. "Thank you."

He gives her a respectful nod in return: one ally to another.

The prince wipes his eyes again, then straightens up and puts on a game face like Sam wouldn't have thought possible if he hadn't just seen it. Jack gives Riley a bright, wide grin. "I assume my father the king has run out of patience."

"Yup." Riley nods, then looks between Sam and Jack. "Everything okay?"

Riley's such a bright, simple soul that even Sam forgets how perceptive he can be. But Sam made a promise, so he just says, "Yeah. Prince Jack made me a knight."

"Really?" Riley looks so delighted Sam feels back for punking him.

"No. Not really."

"Asshole."

Jack chuckles, walking back to the waiting helicopter with a loose, easy stride like he wasn't fighting tears just a few seconds before. "We don't really do knighthoods."

"Oh." Riley sounds disappointed. "What do you do?"

"Order of the Monarch," Jack says tiredly. "Which you'll both most likely be getting, by the way. But it'll probably take a few months, since there's a whole official nomination thing first." He glances at Riley. "You'll both have to come back to Gilboa for the ceremony."

"Cool," Riley says.

They're close enough to the helicopter and the king that Jack immediately turns on another one of his megawatt smiles. "Sorry to keep you waiting, father."

"I'm still your king, Jack," Silas says. "Don't do that again."

Sam winces. "It was entirely my fault, Your Majesty. I was the one who kept talking."

Silas acknowledges that with a vague nod. "Very well. Good journey to you."

"You too, Your Majesty," Riley says. "Thank you again for your hospitality."

"Again, it's the least I could do for my son's rescuers." Silas' smile is getting more and more fixed. Definitely time to clear out.

Sam and Riley hug Wanda one more time, then shake hands with the king. Sam's not sure he'll ever get over that: shaking the hand of real-life royalty. He still can't believe he has the crown prince's number on his phone.

He wants to hug Jack, but just shakes his hand. After their conversation, the last thing Sam wants is to look like he's pushing a Gay Agenda in front of Jack's homophobic asshole dad.

Riley hugs him. Jack does the whole stiff arms thing before hugging him back. Sam doesn't know if that's artful or genuine, but the hug is all back-slapping bromance, and they both let go quickly enough. And Sam really, really fucking hates that he's even thinking about shit like that, but it's hard not to when Silas is right there and Sam knows what he's thinking.

He's a little sad to leave Jack and Wanda, but walking away from Silas is like a weight lifting with every step.

Riley waves at Wanda one more time before she disappears into the helicopter. "Do you think we'll ever see them again?"

"Well, I've got Jack's phone number," Sam says. "And apparently we're going to get an award." Privately, he doubts it; they were just doing their job, rescuing a downed soldier. And Wanda did most of the saving anyway. It should be her, if anyone gets recognized for it. He's sure the king will realize that once the commotion dies down.

He's not prophetic like his grandmother, but he honestly doesn't think he'll ever see Jack or Wanda again.

* * *

Hazel's only a little surprised when she answers a call from an unknown, long-distance number and it's a personal aide to the King of Gilboa on the other end of the line. She'd known someone would contact her about Pietro, of course, since Sam told her. Pietro doesn't have a phone, and she supposes that being Sam's grandmother gives her some credibility to get the boy to the right place at the right time.

But still. It's a little strange, being treated like a celebrity. She can't say she minds it; the limousine ride is very, very nice, even if Pietro's so jittery from exhaustion and impatience that he can't sit still. They stop by the disgusting hovel he shares with two other people and still pays enough for to make her wince. He disappears inside and comes out in a sadly short time, carrying one backpack. It's barely half-full.

They're taken to the swankiest hotel she's ever seen, and whisked up to a suite that's bigger than her whole apartment. The concierge tells them cheerfully that she will personally see to it that they get whatever they want, all paid for by the Gilboan Royal Family.

Pietro looks uncomfortable and out of place in his skinny, skittish body and dirty working-boy clothes, but he perks up when the concierge tells them to order whatever they like from the room service menu.

Hazel quietly asks if she can get Pietro a change of clothes. He can't have more than one other set in that backpack, and she doubts he'd want his sister to see him in it. 

She has half a mind to get something for herself: something expensive and outrageous like she's never had the money for, but in the end she lets the concierge leave with just her request on Pietro's behalf. Hazel settles for choosing exactly what she wants for dinner, even though the price for one meal could buy her a week's worth of groceries.

She also gets two desserts, because she's in her 90s and she's sure this is the first and last time she'll ever experience luxury like this. And she'll have two ridiculously expensive desserts if she wants to.

She takes a picture of Pietro grinning over all the food and texts it to Sam. Sam texts one back of Riley giving a huge, perfect U.S. Air Force Poster Boy grin and a thumbs up, displaying his Gilboan energy bar to the camera like he's advertising it.

Normally Hazel can't even look at that young man without getting sad. She knows Sam's noticed, but he's never asked her about it. Some things are better left unknown.

For the first time, though, Riley's future is uncertain.

Hazel glances at Pietro, who's busy eating the half of the second dessert she couldn't finish. He looks up and smiles with his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. He's wearing brand new pajamas and a cozy fleece hoodie in bright green. He looks warm and content, and young in exactly the way he should be. And something about Pietro finding his sister has changed Riley's fate.

Pietro gulps down the cake in his mouth. "Why are you smiling at your phone like that?"

Hazel switches her smile to him. "Well, it just seems to me that it's been a pretty good day."

He shrugs. "Today was fine. _Tomorrow…_ Now, _that_ will be a good day." He takes another huge forkful of cake and shoves it into his mouth.

"I think you're right," Hazel says, but she knows he is.

* * *

They've been in the air for about five minutes when Riley switches channels on their headsets so only he and Sam will be able to hear the conversation. "Hey, Sam?"

Sam arches his eyebrows. "Yes, Riley?" he answers in the exact same tone.

Riley rolls his eyes, but he looks away and bites his lip before he speaks. Something's bothering him, then. "Was the Prince of Gilboa checking me out?"

Sam hesitates a second before he answers, evaluating whether confirming Riley's suspicion would break his promise to Jack or not. He decides he's not going to lie to his best friend. "Yeah. He was checking us both out. But he was looking longer at you."

Riley blinks. "Me?"

"Yes, Ri," Sam says with exaggerated patience, "the Prince of Gilboa checked you out for longer than he checked out this example of male perfection." Riley has always cheerfully admitted he's closer to the 'adorable guy you'd take home to mom' rather than the 'sexy Air Force pilot' end of the looks and personality spectrum. But that's always worked for him a hell of a lot better than Riley gives it credit for. "You healed him and put up with his attitude. That leaves an impression." Sam blinks innocently. "Even if you do look like a monkey's butt."

"Fuck you." Riley smirks, then settles back, staring at the pilot's helmet in front of him like the sunset orange color could possibly help him think. Sam has no idea how the Gilboan military puts up with that color all over the place. He's sure he'd get headaches just from knowing it _existed._

"That going to be a problem?" Sam asks when five more minutes have gone by and Riley still hasn't said anything.

"What? You saying I look like a monkey's ass?"

"Nooo," Sam drawls, "Jack Benjamin checking you out."

Sam would be surprised if Riley did have a problem, to be honest. Riley's one of the happiest, most laidback and easy to get along with guy he's ever met. Sam would've assumed Riley wouldn't care if another guy was into him. But it's not as if they ever discussed it.

"No. It's not a problem," Riley says, though there's something in his voice Sam can't quite place. Maybe it's just the ambient noise from the helicopter. Riley settles back in his seat and closes his eyes. "How old is he, anyway?"

"25, according to Wikipedia," Sam answers. He grins. "Why? You worried about robbing the cradle, Ri?"

He expects Riley to chuckle, maybe roll his eyes again. Probably give Sam the finger. But Riley doesn't even smile. He licks his lips. The rest of him is completely still. "You asking?"

Sam blinks, then blinks again. It takes him a sec, but he finally gets it: What Riley means. "Never," he says, careful and honest. "Unless you want me to." 

There's another couple beats of silence under the roar of the helicopter blades. "I like girls," Riley says.

"I know." Sam just kind of assumed that was the only gender Riley liked. It's an easy assumption to make. It's also a safe one, considering you can lose your career if someone assumes something else.

Riley nods. He still hasn't opened his eyes. "But I'm also glad I wouldn't be robbing the cradle."

Sam lets out a breath. He's a little shocked, but just a little bit. He's been making the safe assumption for a long time. But Riley is still Riley; his yellow, purple and orange soul spirals around him the same as it ever did.

 _They match,_ Sam realizes. Jack's black and orange sunset colors to Riley's sunrise. Funny how he only noticed that now.

He wants to tell Riley how honored he is, that Riley trusted him with something so important. But it feels a little too much to say it out loud. Instead, he slings his arm across his wingman's shoulders and tugs him close, bumping their helmets. "Me too," he says with mock-seriousness. "You _really_ wouldn't want to piss off his dad."

Riley chuckles. Sam can hear the relief in it. Now he understands what he heard in his voice before. "His dad's an asshole." Riley smirks when Sam grunts in agreement, then he moves out of the circle of Sam's arm so they can see each other's face. "Is that what you were talking to him about?"

Sam arches his eyebrows. "You sure you're not clairvoyant, man?"

"Nope." Riley gives one of his typical shit-eating grins. "Not my fault if you're obvious as hell."

"Screw you," Sam says without heat. Then, "Yeah," he answers Riley's question a lot more seriously. "I promised him I wasn't going to tell you. But I kind of figure he won't mind."

"You didn't tell me," Riley says. "I asked a question and you said, 'yeah'."

"Which is telling you," Sam says pointedly. "But, yeah. That's what we were talking about, pretty much. How his dad's an asshole and Jack shouldn't listen to him."

"Good advice." Riley lightly knocks Sam's helmet with his. "Thanks, Sam."

"You don't have to thank me, Ri," Sam says. "Nothing's changed."

He can tell by the way Riley ducks his head that he heard all the words Sam didn't say. "I don't know about that. I might have to learn Aramaic."

Sam laughs. "But you can barely speak English," he says.

* * *

Hazel and Pietro are almost finished with breakfast when someone knocks on the door.

Pietro's still in his pajamas, but he's up and at the door instantly. She's not surprised when the morning concierge ushers in Wanda and Prince Jack, carrying his familiar in his arms.

Wanda shrieks "PIETRO!" and launches herself into her brother's arms. Pietro catches her, laughs and spins her around, and then the twins are hugging each other and sobbing like it's the end of the world instead of the beginning of it.

The concierge says "Ma'am" and "Your Highness" and fawns out of the room, closing it softly behind him.

"Hi," Jack says.

"Good morning," says the cat in his arms. "I'm Monarch."

"Good morning, Jack, Monarch," Hazel says. "I'm not standing because my hip joints hurt. But I'd be glad to pour you some coffee."

If anything, Jack looks relieved at the lack of formality. He glances at the twins long enough for a small, wistful smile. "I'd love some coffee, thank you."

Pietro and Wanda have stopped hugging, but they're speaking in fast, joyous Sokovian with their hands on each other's arms. Pietro takes a lock of his sister's hair, laughing about something as he lets it slide off his palm. She musses up his rabbit-white hair in return. Her hands glow red, the same deep, glorious red as her soul. It's as if her joy is too much to contain, spilling out into the air around her.

Hazel pats the couch cushion. "Come sit. They'll be standing there for a while, I expect."

Jack sits dutifully, putting his cat beside him. He gives her a polite, bemused smile as he takes the cup of coffee. "Why didn't you call me 'Your Highness'?"

"Because part of you cringes every time you hear it," Hazel says. She touches his chest with two fingers. "And it's a bigger part than the parts that like it." She sips her coffee while he blinks at her in silent amazement. "I read souls. It's my knack," she says. "I can't heal them the way Sam can, but I can read them."

Jack nods slowly, thinking. He takes the elegant little pitcher of cream and pours a sizable dollop on his saucer, then puts it under his cat's nose on the couch. She laps it up noisily.

"Sam said you were a clairvoyant," he says.

She nods. "That too." She looks at him, arching her eyebrows. "Would you like a reading?"

He smirks, but he can't hide the flash of worry in his eyes. "Thank you, but I think my future's pretty certain."

"Not true," the cat says between tonguefuls of cream. She blinks innocently when Jack frowns at her.

Hazel hums and sips her coffee. Wanda leads her brother over by the hand. They're both wet-eyed and grinning. "Jack, this is my brother Pietro."

Pietro gives him a competent bow. He tries to look appropriately serious, but he's smiling too much. "Thank you for bringing my sister to me, Your Highness."

Jack puts his coffee down, stands and offers his hand. "I just supplied the airplane, Mr. Maximoff." He glances around, then gives them a practiced smile. "And the nice room."

"It's like a palace!" Wanda exclaims. "I'm Wanda," she says to Hazel, holding out her red-tinged hand.

Hazel takes it. It's like cupping a beam of sunlight. "I'm so pleased to meet the young woman who rescued my grandson and his wingman."

Wanda beams. "The pleasure is mine, _Baba._ " She looks back at her brother, eyes and soul brimming. "But your grandson saved me, too."

"He has a knack for that," Hazel says.

"So do you, _Baka_ ," Pietro says. He grins at his sister, then looks at Jack. "We're really going to Gilboa?"

Jack nods, his smile widening and finally looking real. "Yes. As guests of the King."

"He is nice," Wanda says, because Pietro is very wide eyed. "He said he will let us stay in Gilboa if we want. Jack arranged it."

"Your sister saved my life," Jack says when Pietro gapes at him. He shrugs. "It seemed like a reasonable thing to offer."

Pietro looks happy, but then uncertain. "But, what about our home?"

Wanda takes his hands. "Sokovia is still being torn apart. There is no home for us there now. But one day, when there's peace again, we can go back. And while we wait, we can be together in a country that will welcome us." She squeezes his hands gently, making them red with the power flaring around her fingers. "Please, Pietro. I thought you were dead. I have missed you for so long. For the first time since we were separated, my heart doesn't hurt. I never want to be far from you again."

"My heart doesn't hurt either," Pietro says. His voice is rough and he swallows. "Of course I'll go with you." He looks at Hazel, grimacing. "It's just…."

"It's a lot all at once, isn't?" Hazel asks. Pietro nods. "You got used to being a certain way, and now suddenly you need to get used to being something else." She can't help glancing at Jack as she speaks. She doesn't know if he gets what she's saying, but Monarch does. Hazel can tell because the cat's ears are swiveled forward, listening. "It's frightening, when you don't know what'll happen next, if it'll be good or bad. But right this moment, you can know for sure that any future where you stay where you are now, as you are now, is going to be bad. And I don't think that's worth the comfort of being able to predict it."

Pietro nods, uncertainly at first and then with resolution. "Yes, of course. You're right. There is nothing here that is worth staying for." His eyes widen and then he ducks his head, cheeks going pink. "I'm sorry," he says to Hazel. "I did not mean to say you are not worthy. I mean, worth staying for, even if I don't want…." He stops talking helplessly, blush getting worse.

"It's fine, honey." Hazel can't help chuckling at his earnest embarrassment. "I'll miss you. But wonderful as I am, I'd never expect you to stay for me."

He smiles again, relaxing. Then he zips around the coffee table and crouches so he can hug her without Hazel needing to stand. "You are wonderful, Baka. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I will miss you too."

She kisses the side of his head, close to his ear because that's what grandmas do. "You're welcome, sweetheart." She isn't ashamed that her eyes are just a little teary when Pietro stands up and lets go. She knows he'll intend to visit, just like she knows she'll never see him again. Not on this Earth, anyway; she just doesn't have that kind of time. "Why don't you take Wanda and go pack," she tells him, pleased when he understands it's not really a suggestion. He just says, 'good idea', and leads his sister off to his enormous bedroom.

Hazel takes a moment to wipe her eyes, and then turns to Jack.

He's still seated, petting Monarch. She wonders if he knows how expressive his face is right now, how easily she can see his sadness. "Your sister loves you just as much as Wanda loves Pietro."

"I know."

He doesn't, but she's not going to waste time with an argument she won't win. "Then why are you so sad?"

He looks at her with an expression she can only think of as sardonic curiosity. "I thought your magic would tell you that."

She gives him the same flat, blinking stare she used to give David when he was young and obnoxious too. "I could list every single reason you got churning around in your soul if you like. Or you could just tell me which particular thing it is and not waste our time."

Jack smirks, but then he shakes his head, smile dying on his expressive face. "No, you're right. There're too many." He takes a breath and squares his shoulders, all studied ease and careless smile. "Just the burdens of my lofty existence."

"No offence, Your Highness, but we both know that's bullshit." She pats his hand, then leaves her palm over it. "If you stay on the path you think you need to walk, you're going to end up imprisoned or dead." She frowns. "Or both."

He scoffs, which can't hide the shock in his eyes. Monarch has her head up like a sphinx, ears swiveling. "You can't be imprisoned and dead at the same time."

"There are ways to die that don't kill," Hazel says. James Barnes has endured them for decades.

James looks like Jack, Hazel realizes suddenly. Then again, she hasn't seen James in more than 30 years; she's likely misremembering. Maybe it's just the wreckage in their souls that seems so much the same.

"I don't want you to die, Jack," Monarch says.

"No one's going to die, Monnie," Jack says, petting her. Hazel is sure the cat can feel his hand shaking.

"No one has to," Hazel agrees. "But Jack, if you try to be the man you think your father wants, that's how it'll end. That's the only ending you'll have. You understand me?"

He nods, swallowing. "I don't know what else to be."

"Yes, you do." Hazel cups his cheek, making sure he looks her in the eye. "Be the person your familiar knows you are." She smiles softly. "Be the kind, decent, loving person you want to be. Not a great king, but a good man."

"I don't know how," Jack says.

"Yes, you do," Hazel says again, smiling at his weak glare. "But if you need advice, you got Monarch, and you got my grandson's phone number. Those are good places to start."

* * *

The hole in Wanda's heart is gone.

She can't remember if it disappeared as soon as she saw Pietro's face on Sam's phone, or if it was only when she was finally able to touch him for the first time in two years. But just knowing he was alive at all mitigated the not-pain of his absence. They've barely been apart since this morning, and now all she feels is warm, quiet joy and love.

Wanda was so used to the ragged, awful emptiness that she didn't know how terrible it truly was. She keeps touching her chest, constantly startled by how much better, how complete she feels. 

She also keeps touching Pietro. Right now they're shoulder to shoulder, packed together at one end of a couch on Jack's plane. It's how they used to sit when they were children: Pietro first, then Wanda squished between him and their mother, and then their father taking up the rest of the space. She loved how cozy it was, though Pietro would complain. It's not the same without their parents; she doesn't think the pang of missing them will ever go away. But Pietro is warm against her side, his knobby elbows poking her, and Wanda can't remember the last time she was so happy.

She just wishes she didn't expect the hole where Pietro was to reopen again at any moment, or expect her brother to disappear in a terrible blast of agony and light.

"I'm trying to sleep," Pietro mutters in Sokovian. There is an actual bedroom in the back of the plane, but Pietro just went in, took the pillow and came back. Now he's leaning on the wall with the pillow jammed against the side of his head. It looks uncomfortable. "Stop thinking so loud. You're all agitated and I can feel it. Like bees."

"I don't feel like bees," Wanda says.

"Fine. Hornets, then. Thousands of agitated, buzzing hornets who are keeping me from sleeping."

Wanda snorts, then lets out a breath. "I am so happy now. But I'm also afraid that I'll look away, and when I look back you'll be gone."

He straightens up, blinking. The pillow falls to the armrest and bounces into his lap. "You mean, because I can run so fast?"

"Not that." Wanda shakes her head. "I forgot you could do that, actually. I'd love to see it."

Pietro smiles at her. "I'll show you when we land. Now will you let me sleep?"

She rolls her eyes and jabs him with her elbow. He yells in mock pain, then slaps his hands over his mouth in gleeful embarrassment when she shushes him. Jack is sleeping a few couches away, lying on his back with his cat curled on his stomach. She realizes, suddenly, that she and Pietro are horsing around the way they did before their parents died and Hydra captured them.

"What's wrong?" Pietro whispers, alarmed at the tears in her eyes.

Wanda shakes her head, hand over her own mouth now. She swallows then wipes her eyes. "I'm just so glad you're here."

"Me too." Pietro maneuvers his arms around her, giving her a big, careful squeeze. He kisses the top of her head. "I didn't think the pain in my heart would ever go away."

"Me neither," Wanda says softly. "I thought you were dead. It's been the worst two years of my life."

"Yeah," Pietro agrees. He lets out a soft breath that she can feel over her hair. "I know you told me on the phone, but I still don't know what it means, that I'm your familiar now." He turns to glance at Jack and Monarch. "Am I still…me? I think I am, but…I can…feel your soul? I think? And there was so much pain when we were separated." His voice drops. "And I like being able to move fast, but my hair is white. Like the rabbit Strucker killed before he tried to kill me."

"I don't know much about it," Wanda admits. "I only found out that was what happened a few days ago. We'll have to learn about familiars when we get to Gilboa." She pats his chest. "But, I don't think you need to be afraid, Pietro." She nods at Jack and Monarch. "Jack and Monarch are happy. She's his mentor and best friend, and she'll never leave. That seems like a very good thing to me. And you're not different at all. Or, only in the ways that you said." She smiles. "I like your hair, though. Very punk."

He smirks, but then his face goes somber again. "We can't be apart anymore."

"I don't care," Wanda says fiercely. "I don't want to be apart. You're my twin and I love you. Even if we weren't bound by magic, we're bound by blood. I never want to be apart again."

Pietro squeezes her a little bit. "I don't either. But, what happens when you fall in love with the handsome prince and get married and live happily ever after?"

Wanda snorts again, making sure Pietro can see her rolling her eyes. "Then you'll be the stable boy, of course." She leans her head on his shoulder. "We'll stay together anyway, no matter what happens."

"Okay," Pietro says, smile in his voice. "That's good."

She feels his body getting heavier, his breath evening out as he falls asleep. He's effectively trapped her in his arms, but she doesn't mind. She's been without her brother for two years, and she's happy to let him crush her for a while. And they'll be in Gilboa soon anyway; she wants to enjoy having him exclusively to herself for as long as she can.

Jack slowly sits up, moving Monarch to his lap then rubbing his eyes. He yawns, then looks at how Wanda's nearly engulfed by Pietro. He grins at her. She knows he'd be laughing if he wasn't trying to be quiet.

Wanda grins right back.

* * *

Love doesn't change everything, despite what the poets and songwriters might have us believe. It can, however, once in a while, alter someone's fate. It can also, sometimes, save lives.

Tony Stark isn't thinking of that right now, as he clanks in his makeshift armor to the exit of the caves he's been trapped in for months, staring at the men and their guns that mark the distance between himself and freedom. It's 2008 and Tony just left a good man dead behind him, and he wants to keep the promise he made to not waste his life.

Dying here would be a pretty big waste.

The insurgents open fire and he weathers it, then opens up his flamethrower and sends them all to hell. He made the flamethrower only because he had no access to bullets, but that doesn't change the dark, vicious satisfaction when he watches the men who tortured him and killed Yinsen dying in agony. It's not something he wants to examine closely or at all, so he's glad for the distraction of all the boxes of Stark Industries weapons to destroy. Along with the men who stole them.

But there are more men than boxes, and a shit ton more bullets than men. Tony ends up turtling on his hands and knees, suddenly far less certain he'll live long enough to keep any promises at all. If he can just get up, he'll be able to hopefully fly out of here. But he can't get up. And…fuck. _Fuck._ He can hear chanting. If it's the same guy from the Daily Torture Hour, in seconds Tony will be lying on the sand, screaming in agony. He has to stop the witch but he can't move and his heart is going too fast and he can't, he can't _breathe—_

He sees a flash of…something, out of the corner of his extremely limited vision, and suddenly no one's shooting at him. The only sound is his own erratic, gasping breaths, the laboring mechanics of the suit and the greedy crackle of the spreading fire.

Someone knocks on the side of his helmet like a neighbor on a door, and Tony swings his arm up without thinking. But he misses.

"Hey! I'm trying to rescue you!"

Tony blinks, then stands, teetering a little because the suit weighs about a thousand pounds and he's had a really long fucking day. And now he's hallucinating, because he's apparently being rescued by the same jailbait with the white hair from a year ago. The kid's dressed in desert camo, looking way less murderous than last time and a lot more anxious and annoyed. So either Tony has a military kink he was previously unaware of, or this is somehow actually happening.

"Well, I definitely didn't see that coming."

"Can you get out of the armor quickly?" Jailbait looks around, vanishes, then comes back looking even more anxious and annoyed. "We must leave before the weapons explode, and you're too heavy to carry in that thing."

"I'll fly out," Tony says quickly. Best case scenario is that it'll take an hour to get out of the suit, and everything will go boom long before then. "I can try to carry you—"

Jailbait shakes his head. "I'm fine. Go! Go!" And he vanishes again.

Tony flips the switch on his arm and blasts into the air right before the compound explodes. He flies in a graceful arc that ends in a big, fat faceplant in a sand dune. But, hey. He's alive.

He's alive.

"Not bad," Tony says, because that's the only thing he can think of that won't end up with him laughing hysterically or bursting into tears. And apparently getting out of the suit will be easier than anticipated, since most of it broke off him already.

He's just begun worrying about Jailbait when the kid suddenly blinks into existence. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," Tony answers automatically. He's pretty sure he has cracked ribs and a hell of a lot of bruising, but nothing that'll stop him from getting the fuck away from here. "You okay?"

Jailbait makes a face like he's insulted Tony would even think he might not be. "Stay still. I'll help you out of that." And then Tony's surrounded by a silvery blur for a few seconds, feeling his arms and legs moving really, really fast. And then he's standing, held up by Jailbait. This close to him he can see the patch on the kid's shoulder. The colors are subdued to match his uniform, but Tony's pretty sure that's the Gilboan monarch. It's the easiest foreign flag to recognize next to Canada.

He's about to ask what the hell Gilboan troops are doing rescuing him in Afghanistan—and where's the rest of Jailbait's unit, come to think—but the kid says, "Hang on," and there's rush of wind and then Jailbait is setting him back on his feet somewhere else entirely.

"How the hell did you do that?" Tony clings to him, because whatever just happened gave him one hell of a headrush and the desert won't stop looping. "Can you teleport?"

"I run very fast. Shhh." Jailbait closes his eyes for a few seconds, then grins and opens them. "Our ride is coming."

"How do you know that? Are you clairvoyant?" The kid still doesn't feel like a witch, but then again Tony was kind of too busy to pay attention.

"Something like that." Jailbait lowers Tony carefully to the sand, then sits next to him. "Here." He hands him a canteen and an energy bar.

Tony's stomach is really unhappy with the idea of food, but he takes slow sips of the water and that goes down and seems to want to stay there. Score. "Okay. I don't mean to be rude since you were very helpful, but who the hell are you and what the hell are you even doing here?"

The kid laughs. "My name is Pietro, and I'm here because I volunteered to be. Maybe you don't remember me, but I—"

"Duct taped me to a chair and had a long conversation about killing me to avenge your family," Tony finishes for him. He arches his eyebrows as he takes another sip. "I may have been drunk at the time, but you were pretty memorable."

Pietro winces, then grabs something out of his tac vest and unrolls it. "Here." He hands Tony a boonie cap. Tony puts it on and is instantly more comfortable. "I'm sorry I did that," Pietro says.

Tony waves that off. "Nothing to apologize for." He gestures vaguely behind him, where he assumes the remains of the insurgents' compound are slowly burning out. "I pretty much just found out the hard way that selling weapons doesn't actually keep the good guys safe. And I'm going to change things, as soon as I get back to the States. Stark Industries is going to stop selling weapons." He makes sure he's looking Pietro in the eye. "That's a promise."

Pietro holds his gaze for a beat, then nods. "Good." He smiles a little, nudges Tony with his elbow. "I guess I'm glad I rescued you, then."

Tony forces himself to flash him a smile in return, then takes another drink. "So, you wanted to square up? Is that it?"

"Yes, that is it," Pietro says simply. "I almost took your life, so now I saved it. An eye for an eye."

That's not what the saying means, but it works well enough. "Well, thanks. Are you here alone? How did you even find me, anyway? And are you really Gilboan? I thought you were Sokovian."

"I am Sokovian. I have dual citizenship," Pietro says. "And I'm not here alone, but I helped you escape by myself because it was faster and…." He squints, thinking.

"Discrete?"

"Yes. Discrete." Pietro nods. He grins wolfishly. "We are perhaps doing this not so legally. So we needed to do it very fast and very quiet."

That's of course when Tony hears the _whupwhupwhup_ of a large helicopter rising like a beautiful olive green sunrise over a dune. "That's not quiet," he says.

"What?"

Rhodey leaps out even before the helicopter's runners hit the sand. Then there's a lot of hugging and tears and Tony trying not to let on how much his ribs hurt. Having his best friend's arms wrapped around him is what finally lets Tony relax for the first time in months. Now, at last, he really knows everything will be all right.

Pietro and Rhodey help him to his feet, which is lucky because his knees don't seem to want to hold him anymore.

Another man jumps out of the helicopter and trots over. His patches are definitely American, denoting him as Pararescue, with the crossed lightning bolts of a witch. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stark. My name's Riley," he shouts at Tony's ear. "I'm going to help these men get you into the helicopter and then I'll check you out on the way back to base, make sure you're okay. How does that sound?"

"Beautiful," Tony says.

Climbing into the helicopter isn't fun even with all the help, but feeling it rise into the air is probably the best moment of Tony's life. He doesn't even mind Riley's hand on him while he chants his spell.

"The brass wanted to call off the search," Rhodey explains. "I was damn lucky there's a Gilboan base in Kabul, and that the base commander agreed to lend me a couple pilots and this guy." He nods at Pietro, who gives them a grinning thumbs up.

The depth of Rhodey's loyalty is something Tony doesn't have the strength to deal with right now, so he just says, 'thank you', hoping the radio can convey how very, very much he means it. "How did you know where to find me?"

"We didn't," Pietro says. "I searched all the caves in the area." He pats Tony lightly on the shoulder. "Thank you for lighting that fire. It made things very easy." He shrugs when Tony gapes at him. "I can run very fast."

"Wow," Tony says. He's never heard of magic like that, especially when Pietro still doesn't feel like a witch. "I'm glad you came along, Rabbit boy." He ignores Pietro's expressive huff-and-eyeroll combination to look at Rhodey. "How did you get a Gilboan base commander to help you?"

Rhodey grins. "Well, it just so happens that I know the Crown Prince's boyfriend."

**Epilogue**

2009 comes and ends. Riley requests, and is granted, a transfer to Gilboa as a training liaison. Other soldiers are sent to apprehend Khalid Khandil. No one dies during the mission.

Prince Benjamin leads the King's Own Witch Brigade in a coup against his father. King Silas is arrested, stripped of power, and eventually released to live a quiet life with his second, no longer secret, family.

Jack serves long enough to end the war with Gath, then abdicates in favor of his sister and her husband David. Queen Michelle allows same-sex marriage later that year. She is Best Woman at her brother's wedding to Riley.

(Sam really isn't prophetic, though he is Riley's Best Man. He definitely sees Jack and Wanda—and Pietro—again.)

Pietro serves in the Witch Brigade with distinction. Wanda creates a small, royally sanctioned team of civilians with especially potent magic or abilities. Their name is officially the Protectors, but after 2012 they're known affectionally as the Desert Avengers. Fewer terrible things happen in the world because of them.

Saving people makes Wanda happy.

In 2010 Hazel Wilson dies. Some days Sam feels like the grief will eat him alive, but he has people to help him through it. Wanda and Pietro known intimately how he feels, and there's Riley, with his simple kindness and gentle wisdom. Sam will never stop missing his grandma, but he's okay.

In 2011 Steve Rogers comes out of the ice.

In 2014 he gets his familiar back, and his heart and soul along with him.

Love doesn't change everything. But once in a while it can change lives and alter fate. And sometimes, it means we can finish a story with: 

_And they all lived happily ever after_.

(And know that it's mostly even true.)

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Now I feel is the time to admit that I didn't initially intend to have Prince Jack as more than a minor character, or to save Sam's wingman Riley.
> 
> Jack was, originally, a kind of in-joke for myself. I couldn't fit Bucky into this prequel, so I put in another beautiful, angst-filled, military boy played by Sebastian Stan. And then he became integral to the plot and far too dear to me to end up going through his actual personal-hell-arc from the series.
> 
> And _then_ , in the process of Jack becoming integral to the plot, I made the mistake of giving Riley dialogue. And then I couldn't let him die either.
> 
> #TheAuthorRegretsNothing
> 
> I will probably have to write a sequel at some point dealing with why Jack and Bucky look so much alike. (It's Hydra.)
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr,](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/) where I reblog a lot of pictures of Sebastian Stan.


End file.
